I reach the lobby doors and step outside, coming face to face with a young woman in a National Guard uniform. Her dark, honeyed skin blends with black hair and eyes. I stop dead in my tracks, staring for a minute, and then a smile spreads across my face.
“Sophia!”
I throw my arms around her neck and embrace her. Sophia Rodriguez. The friend who helped me survive an Omega POW slave labor camp. The friend who joined the National Guard and fought against Omega with me… and also the friend who claimed Chris was a traitor and refused to help me rescue him from Omega’s POW Holding Center in Los Angeles.
My shock and surprise at seeing her here overcomes the anger I felt the last time we were in the same room.
I pull away, noting Sophia’s pained expression.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, my smile fading.
She clears her throat.
“You survived,” she replies. There is no smile on her face.
“Yes. Operation Angel Pursuit was a success. We brought Chris back, Sophia. We did it!”
She shakes her head, not meeting my gaze.
“I was talking about the Capitol Building, actually,” she says.
“Oh.” I blink. “Yeah, I was outside when the missile hit.”
“Missile?”
“Yeah. Chris says it was probably a cruise missile.” I shrug. “He’s right. Nobody could have gotten inside the Capitol and planted a bomb that big. There’s way too much security.”
“Well. Chris would know. He always knows everything,” Sophia replies, and there is a note of sarcasm in her voice. “That’s why you rescued him from Los Angeles.”
“Sophia, what is with you?” I demand. “Chris has never done anything to you, and neither have I.”
She doesn’t answer.
So I switch tactics.
“Alexander Ramos is alive,” I say. “He was in Los Angeles. He’s here, now.”
She stares at me, and for a brief moment, I see a flash of the old Sophia. The spunky, optimistic young woman who helped me survive enslavement and countless guerilla warfare shootouts. And then she says,
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? Go to Headquarters and see for yourself.”
“But that’s impossible,” she replies, and this time, her tone is unsteady. “Alexander went MIA weeks ago.”
“Well, he’s with us now.”
“I would have known about this.”
“No. You wouldn’t.” I fold my arms. “Because you chose Colonel Rivera and the National Guard over Operation Angel Pursuit.” I shrug. “That was your choice, and now I’m just telling you what you missed.”
“If you’re lying, Cassidy—”
“—I’ve never lied to you before,” I frown. “I’ve never done anything to hurt you, Sophia.”
Her lower lip trembles.
“I need to get to Headquarters,” she mutters.
She pushes past me, leaving me alone on the sidewalk, staring after her. Dumbfounded by her behavior — and the shock of seeing her here — I barely remember how to move my legs and keep walking.
Sophia will heal, I tell myself. She just needs time. The stress of warfare just affects people in different ways.
The Headquarters Building has been moved from the Capitol to the Sacramento Convention Center. It is several blocks away, but walking in the cool morning air does a lot to clear my head.
By the time I reach the Convention Center, I am alert and centered. The long, gray building is lined with glass walls and doors. A security perimeter has been established around the block. I spot several familiar figures near the front entrance, an ornate box office with the words, Sacramento Convention Center above the entryway. An empty water fountain is sitting on the concrete, pathetic and lonely.
“Uriah,” I say.
He is clean, dark hair combed back against olive skin. He assesses me as I approach, sadness in his coal-colored eyes. “Cassidy,” he replies. “You’re okay.” I raise an eyebrow. “Where is everyone?”
Alexander Ramos and tall, blonde Derek are not here. “Alexander is inside,” Uriah explains. “Derek is at the hospital.”
“Is he hurt?” I ask, alarmed.
“Just nicked. A support beam fell on him yesterday. His arm might be broken.” He sighs. “Another one bites the dust.”
“His arm is broken,” I say. “He’s not dead. Thank God.”
“Vera is inside the Convention Center,” Uriah continues. “She’s… different. Her mother’s death. It affected her more than she would like to admit, I think.”
“Understandable,” I say.
Angela Wright is dead. Yet another one of us dies at Omega’s hands.
It infuriates me.
“They’re waiting for you inside,” Uriah says, standing straighter.
“Me?”
“You’re a Senator now, remember?” A slight smile spreads across his lips.
“How could I forget?” I gesture for him to follow me. We walk together toward the entrance of the Convention Center, entering through the doors. A huge, carpeted foyer and escalators that actually work can be found here. Doors line the walls, each one an entrance to a different floor.
“Where were you last night, Cassidy?” Uriah whispers.
“At the hospital.”
“Why?”
“I was looking for my Dad.” I shake my head. “I’d rather not talk about my father right now. I need to be calm.”
“Okay,” Uriah continues. “Let me rephrase that: why weren’t you with Chris at Headquarters last night? The officers were meeting. We needed you.”
“I had an obligation to make sure my father was alive,” I say.
Uriah closes his mouth. He understands. He always does.
“Well…” he pauses. “Is he?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He wasn’t at the hospital. He’s still missing in action.”
He says nothing. There is a gathering of National Guardsmen in uniform at the end of the foyer. We follow them into a huge room — gray floors, gray walls, and huge skylights above our heads.
“Hey, I’ve been looking for you.” Andrew jumps up from a chair. He is tall and lean, short dark hair cropped into a military buzz. He is a good man. Our so-called “tech guy.” One of the most valuable people in my platoon.
“Andrew,” I say. “What’s going on here?”
“They need you,” he replies.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true,” Uriah points out.
I look to the front of the room. I recognize Robert Lockwood — the Pro Tem Speaker of the House. I’m glad to see that he survived the bombing. Manny is seated on a chair, watching the gathering of officers with an annoyed expression on his face.
Good old Manny. Completely anti-political.
Chris is standing with his arms folded across his broad, muscular chest, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, his jaw taut. He is talking with Vera Wright. She looks upset, her usually pale cheeks colored with splotches of red. Chris shakes his head and gestures to the door. She fists her hands at her sides and marches away, in our direction.
“Vera, what’s wrong?” I ask her.
She doesn’t answer. She glares at me as she exits the room, never pausing to speak to anyone else. Chris looks up and catches my eye. He nods slightly and turns back to the rest of the officers.
I walk over. And then I see why Chris is so tense. Colonel Rivera — a big, blundering man with a cigar wedged between his teeth — is speaking. This is the man who denied the militias backup during a fight with Omega. This is the man who refused to send a rescue unit into Los Angeles to rescue Chris when he was captured by Omega. This is the man who will hate me for the rest of my life for disobeying his ridiculous orders to abandon Chris and deny me a rescue mission into Los Angeles, Operation Angel Pursuit.