State of Pursuit

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 Ma

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 Ma

“Three hours, tops, in these trucks,” I say. “Ma

“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,” Ma

“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!

I shake myself, but the sting of Sophia’s betrayal is still there.

After everything that’s happened in the last week, this is the icing on the cake. I can’t deal with it. I don’t have the time or energy. So I take my damaged emotions, put them in a box, and throw the box out the figurative window.

It’s game time, and nothing will defeat me.

I twist around in my seat, keeping an eye on the convoy. The staging area by the rest stop is slowly emptying of all of its vehicles. The Blackhawk helicopters in the parking lot growl to life, slicing the air with their incredible blades. They rise into the sky, hulking masses that will defend the convoy from the air.

“I almost wish we were going back to Sector 20,” Uriah sighs. “At least we’d have some time to recover from all of this.”

I keep my mouth shut.

I would love to return to Sector 20, but that’s not an option. Not right now.

It takes a long time for the last of the convoy to finally fade into the distance. We are four vehicles idling on the side of the road. Two transport trucks and two Humvees. Our rescue unit — the unit that’s going to take on the entire Omega contingent.

“Okay, boys,” I say into my radio, “Let’s roll.”

Uriah steps on the gas, steers the Humvee into a tight U-turn, and just like that, we are heading south.

“Will Rivera come after us when they realize we’re gone?” Uriah asks.

“No,” I say. “It’s not worth it to him.”

I reach up and touch the gold shield necklace on my chest. A gift from Chris. It seems like he gave it to me such a long time ago, but in actuality, it hasn’t even been one year yet.

Things change so quickly.

We drive south on the interstate until we hit the cratered remains of the road destroyed during the fighting. The Battle of the Grapevine is what the men are calling it. Landmines and rockets ripped apart most of the concrete, and what the bombs didn’t get, Omega’s Air Force nailed on their strafing runs.

“There are still some landmines planted out here,” I warn Uriah. “This is where we’ll be taking the old roads.”

“How old, exactly?”

“Don’t worry, I know where I’m going.” I unfold a map from my bag. It’s a military map, full of exact coordinates, latitudes and longitudes. But what we will be using are the back roads, those that will take us to Highway 138. I know from intelligence reports that Omega rarely uses anything but the major interstates like I-5 or Highway 99. Highway 138 will be a safe way to get us where we are going: Lancaster, California.