“I wasn’t wounded,” he answers. “I was separated from my team. We were a few miles out and Omega mercenaries were working their way towards us. A few of my men were killed, others were wounded, and the rest of us scattered to stay alive. I ran out of ammo, then I got captured by Omega scouts.” He folds his arms across his broad chest. “I was in a truck with a few other men. Halfway back to Los Angeles, the truck stopped and the guards pulled us out of the trucks. They interrogated and killed the prisoners in the truck, one by one, while I watched. Harry recognized my face. He wanted to keep me alive for questioning.”
“How did you escape?” I ask.
“I got lucky.” He exhales deeply. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Alexander Ramos look truly sad. “Omega got lax in security because I was the only prisoner in the truck. I had nothing to lose. They tied me up, but I managed to get free. The guard in the truck turned his back on me — his last mistake. When the truck slowed through a curve, I jumped out and ran. I ended up in Toluca Lake, the Underground picked me up, and now I’m here, running recon for them.”
“Is this where you want to stay?” I press. “Or do you want to join the rescue unit? Or…do you want to go to Fresno with the National Guard?”
“I’d rather be with the Mountain Rangers in the hills,” he replies. “But that’s not going to happen.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Such a long time goes by before he answers that I almost think he forgets that we’re having a conversation. At last he says, “I’ll come with you. And then I’ll go back to Fresno with the National Guard.”
A warm smile touches my lips.
I had a feeling that Alexander would find his way back to Sophia.
I was right.
“What are you going to do when the war is over?” I ask.
“Build a house. Leave the war behind me,” Chris answers.
“Me too.” I’m lying on my back, looking up at the sky. It is a warm summer afternoon. The newest recruits for the militia are training in the background. Chris and I have just returned from a successful reconnaissance mission.
“Cassidy?” Chris whispers.
I turn to look at him. His handsome face is troubled. He slowly takes my hand, studies each finger, then finally brings it to his lips in a soft kiss.
“Are we going to make it?” I ask.
Chris is the most positive, uplifting figure in the fight against Omega. But every once in a while, I see the vulnerability seep through. And I’m pretty sure I am the only one who is close enough to him to detect it. It worries me.
“We’ll make it,” he promises. “But it won’t be without sacrifice.”
“Maybe the United States military will step in,” I suggest. “Maybe we won’t have to do all of the fighting ourselves.”
Chris smiles. It’s a weary smile. He pulls me closer.
“We can’t count on anyone but ourselves,” he says.
“Is it really that bad?”
“Being on our own isn’t a bad thing. Look at these people — they’re inspired. They’re fighting for something that they believe in.” Chris hooks his arm around my waist. “It’s made us stronger.”
It always amazes me that Chris can pull something positive out of even the bleakest situation. I press an affectionate kiss against his lips. He grins — the first time he has seemed relaxed in days.
“I would do anything for you,” I hear myself saying.
Does that sound desperate? I don’t care. I mean it.
I still mean it.
After spending the night at the Underground base in Toluca Lake, I am well rested and ready to go. The militia stayed upstairs. Huge rooms have been stocked with mattresses, blankets and pillows. I stayed in a bedroom by myself at the end of a hall — the former master bedroom, I’m guessing.
When I wake up I find myself lost in a pile of expensive sheets and blankets. It’s not even close to what I’m used to sleeping on: the dirt.
I roll out of bed. The room is dark. I light a lantern on the dresser in the corner; the room is huge, decorated with modern art. I sit on the floor and lace up my combat boots.
Come on, I think. Wake up, Cassidy. It’s time to go to work.
I stand up. I pull my hair into a ponytail to keep it out of my face. I cinch up my belt, throw on my jacket and look myself over. Do I look like a battle-hardened commander? Or am I just a stupid kid from Culver City trying to play the part of a soldier?
Privately, I feel like a combination of both.
I grab my gear and open the door to the hallway. The militia is getting up, gathering their belongings. It’s probably five-thirty. I find the stairs and enter the living room. Alexander is waiting, a grim expression on his face.
“Get a good night’s sleep, Ramos?” I ask.
He grunts.
Yes. That’s the Alexander I remember.
Uriah is standing silently in the shadow of the front door, tracing his finger down the length of a photo frame. His mood radiates depression. Under normal circumstances I would offer to cheer him up, but today I avoid him.
“All present and accounted for,” Vera reports, descending the staircase. “Can we just get this over with?”
“Getting antsy, Vera?” I ask.
“I don’t like sitting around here, doing nothing.”
I don’t disagree.
Manny suddenly barges in through the back door, tracking mud into the house. He looks wild and windblown — almost like he’s been flying.
“What are you doing out there?” I ask.
“Checking on the horses,” he replies. “They’re settled in fine. Katana’s comfortable.” He jerks his thumb behind his shoulder. “The stable’s just about as fancy as the inside of this mansion. Bloody horses are going to be spoiled rotten by the time we get back.”
“They deserve a little pampering,” I say.
“So do I,” Manny answers.
I chuckle, stationing myself by the front door. The militiamen and women begin trickling downstairs, geared up and ready to go. Derek and Andrew are standing near each other, exchanging words in muffled voices.
“Well,” I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “This is it. We’ve made it this far. We can make it the rest of the way.”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
“You have your orders,” I continue. “We don’t stop moving. If we play our cards right, we’ll reach the prison today, and we can carry out our plan. Does anybody have any questions?”
Silence. There are a thousand questions to be asked, but in the end, only one thing matters: will we survive? I hope so. For Chris’s sake. For the militia’s sake. A lot is riding on this rescue mission.
To say nothing of the fact that if we do survive, we have to return to Fresno and face the wrath of Colonel Rivera.
“Let’s go,” I say quietly.
Solemnly.
Alexander opens the front door and we step outside together, into the pre-dawn. It’s a dark October morning. Zero-dark-thirty, as Chris would say. It’s cold, and it looks like the past week of fair, sunny weather is no more. The sky is cloudy. I smell rain.
“Commander?” Andrew says, falling into step with me.
We stand and wait as the gate rolls open. I stare at the empty street in front of us. Two expensive, abandoned cars are sitting on the side of the road. Leaves are piled in the gutters. The silence is like a physical weight on my chest. I feel overwhelmed with the forlorn atmosphere of this neighborhood — of this entire city.