“So does mine,” Uriah says.
“Me too,” Derek shrugs.
“But… I’m not a field commander,” I say, shocked.
Yes, I am organizing a rescue unit to save Chris, but I am not a commander. Not like him. I’m a Lieutenant. A sniper. I was planning on someone else being in charge.
“You have the battlefield experience we need,” Uriah points out. “Besides, we trust you. You’ve been leading the militias as long as Chris has. And if Chris trusts you, I do, too.”
He holds my gaze for a few moments, turning to the others.
“Does anyone here disagree?” he asks.
Silence.
Everyone in the room slowly raises their hands. Manny smiles with satisfaction, almost smug. I lick my lips, fear creeping into my heart.
What have I gotten myself into?
I am no longer a Lieutenant. I am a Commander.
I am in charge. And I’m scared.
Chapter Three
As a child, I spent most of my time alone. I was my own best friend. My daily activities consisted of homework, chores and pretending that I was widely loved and adored by all. And by all I mean the collection of toys and stuffed animals I kept in my room. I played with wooden swords and dressed my dolls as commando operatives. I read books about the lives of famous world leaders. People like Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte and George Washington. I enjoyed history. I liked imagining myself as someone important. Why?
I suppose it was because I was a nobody, and I wanted to feel accepted.
Now, as the Commander of a paramilitary rescue unit headed into Los Angeles, I feel more than acceptance. I feel raw fear. I am not afraid that I will die. No. The possibility of death is something I accepted long ago.
I am afraid that I will fail my mission… and fail Chris. Once upon a time Chris took control of a militia group called the Free Army to rescue me from an Omega slave labor camp. That group is now called the Freedom Fighters, and I am taking them into the heart of Omega’s stronghold to save Chris’s life.
I don’t think I’m ready.
But here I am.
I am sitting in a Humvee. Uriah is in the driver’s seat and I am in the passenger side. Despite my anger that he abandoned Max on the battlefield, I must admit that I’ve appreciated his support. He really does seem sorry. People panic in battle. They make bad decisions. And who am I to hold a grudge? I’ve certainly made plenty of my own mistakes since the collapse.
Vera is in another vehicle with Derek, and Manny… well, he’s with his biplane, getting ready to scout ahead and meet us at the rendezvous point in the Tehachapi Mountains. The National Guard convoy is rolling out of Headquarters, a massive movement of trucks and vehicles heading north. It’s surreal to watch.
We came. We fought. We won.
For now.
“They’ll be back,” Uriah mutters.
“Who?” I ask.
“Omega.” He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “Don’t you find it a little hard to believe that they would pull back completely and just let us retreat? They’ve got a five million-man army. Let’s be realistic.”
I fold my hands in my lap. The Humvee rumbles to life. Soldiers and officers outside shout orders. Troops are being loaded into transport trucks.
“Something scared them off,” I suggest.
Something caused Omega to retreat, and it wasn’t the National Guard. Many of our own men turned on us. We should still be outnumbered. In fact, we should probably be dead.
So why did Omega break off the attack?
“She’s not coming,” Uriah states.
I blink, following his line of sight. Sophia is standing near a transport truck headed northbound. She is dressed in uniform, her gear on her back and a rifle on one shoulder. Her short, dark hair is hidden beneath a beanie.
I watch her carefully. Her face has no expression. She looks up, sensing someone watching her, and locks eyes with me. I slowly shake my head.
Don’t do this, I think. We’ve been through so much together.
She lifts her chin, pursing her lips. She takes a step onto the bumper below the rear gate of the truck, turns her back, and steps inside. She disappears into the dark maw of the vehicle.
I exhale sharply.
Why is she doing this? After everything that’s happened?
“She’s grieving,” Uriah says, softening. “People in grief do illogical things.”
I study his profile. His eyes are trained on the road, soft black hair tangled under a National Guard baseball cap. Since when has Uriah become a friend to me?
“She’s angry,” I reply. “She blames me for losing Alexander and Jeff.”
“That’s not your problem. That’s hers.”
“Sophia has been my friend since we were POWs in a labor camp.”
“People change, and sometimes you don’t know why.” He turns slightly, touching my knee with his hand. “You’re better than her, Cassidy. You’ve got greatness in you.”
My mouth goes dry.
“That’s Lieutenant Hart to you,” I murmur.
“Actually, you’re a Commander now,” he counters.
I don’t reply. Chris is the one who offers words of wisdom when I am hurting.
Not Uriah.
“How far away did Manny say the rendezvous point was?” Uriah asks, clearing his throat. Changing the subject. Removing his hand from my knee.
“Three hours, tops, in these trucks,” I say. “Manny has friends in the Underground in the Tehachapi Mountains. That’s our contact.”
“The Colonel’s going to be pissed.”
“He’ll have to deal with it.”
Lately, I’ve been surprised at my own behavior. Recently, stuff that comes out of my mouth is tight and cold. Commanding, even. It’s unlike me, and yet…it is, somehow.
This isn’t who I am. It’s just part of who I am.
Cassidy Hart, the smart mouthed girl from L.A., died somewhere on the battlefield. At some point, she was replaced by a battle hardened ex-slave laborer and the Lieutenant of a sniper platoon.
Cassidy Hart has changed.
“Here we go,” Uriah mutters.
I lean forward, peering ahead. The convoy is moving forward, a mass of transport trucks and commandeered vehicles filling the freeway. The sky is beautiful. The sun is just peeking over the horizon, filling the hills with a gorgeous gold tone.
Uriah gently eases the Humvee onto the freeway. The back of our vehicle is stocked with supplies and weaponry — the other members that volunteered for our rescue unit follow in separate trucks.
The radio on my belt crackles.
“Yankee, this is Sundog,” Manny says, his voice scratchy. “I’m ready.”
“Roger that, Sundog,” I reply, hiding a grin. “Happy flying.”
We rumble down the interstate, headed northbound. The speed at which the convoy travels is no more than fifteen to twenty miles per hour — maddeningly slow. Discreetly, Uriah pulls to the right hand side of the road, waving follow-on vehicles ahead.
“You better pray they don’t notice this, Commander,” Uriah comments.
“They won’t,” I say. But I’m not confident. I’m bluffing.
Uriah pulls off the road completely and the truck sits there, idling. The convoy continues to pass us by, a roaring collection of engines and troop transports. The truck that Sophia is in lumbers past. A sick, devastated feeling washes over me.
Sophia is angry at the world, my conscious tells me. Her decisions are her own, and you can’t waste time worrying about her. Your job is to keep your team safe and to rescue Chris. Focus on the objective, Cassidy!