State of Alliance

“You did outstanding, Cassie,” Chris says.

We are walking toward the Herrma

“Are we in?” I ask quietly.

“We’d better be,” Uriah interjects. “I don’t see any reason why they would reject us. Everyone but Anita Vega seemed pretty enthusiastic.”

“Anita was fine,” I say. “She’s just trying to negotiate.”

“I can’t believe it will take them until tomorrow to take a vote on this stupid thing,” Vera snaps. “This is a state of emergency — we’re at war. We’re either in or not. How long do they have to drag it out and talk about it?”

“Let them talk,” I reply. “We know what we need to do.”

We reach the ballroom. It’s a huge space. Generator powered lamps and lanterns light the eating area. Tables are lined with food and beverages, and officers of all colors, shapes and sizes are eating with cloth napkins on their laps.

“Very fancy,” Andrew says. “Too fancy.”

“Seems u

I say nothing. Devin May replies,

“It’s how they keep going on, even when everything is so bad. We stick to protocol, we make things nice, and we feed our people well while we still can.” He shrugs. “Eat up, folks. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, trust me.”

The activity in the room seems to pause for a moment as the officers and troops eating di

My security detail splits in half. One half sits at the table with me and enjoys a meal — Andrew, Uriah and Vera — while the other half makes their rounds in the ballroom. Sophia is among the latter group. Chris seats himself across from me.

“You know,” he says, looking at Uriah, “when the Alliance accepts California’s proposal, things are going to change. We’ll have so much more access to better weapons and security.”

“If they accept us,” Vera mutters.

“Stop being such a pessimist,” I say. “Everything’s going to work out.”

Vera shakes her head, and I get a flash of Angela Wright’s strained, bloody face; a broken expression seconds before death. I look down at the gravy on my potatoes, my appetite evaporating.

I grab my wine glass, filled with water.

“Where’s Ma

Uriah answers, “He’s somewhere in the compound. Probably talking with the Air Force, getting a feel for what they’re up to. You know Ma

“Yeah, that’s a true story right—” I begin, cut off by an earsplitting bang. The wine glass in my hand shatters, sending small shards of glass across my cheek, into my hand.

I freeze. I comprehend the fact that something struck my glass, broke it, and kept traveling, hitting a man seated behind me at another table. He slumps forward and his head hits the table, blood spilling down the back of his white haired head.

I drop to my knees behind the table, speckles of blood appearing on my hand where the wine glass shattered. Uriah is on my right and Chris is crouched beneath the table. Yelling and screaming echoes loudly throughout the ballroom. I have already drawn my handgun. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins.

Chris yells, “KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!”

Uriah takes my arm, as if attempting to steer me away from the conflict. I jerk away, glaring. I don’t need to be led like a lost schoolgirl.

I turn my head, sensing movement behind me. I see another National Guard trooper push through the crowd and lunge at me. He’s brandishing a knife. I don’t have time to fire my gun. He is too fast and too close. I roll onto my back and kick upward, smashing the heel of my boot into his hand. The knife falls from his fingers and clatters against the floor.

He keeps coming. His one hand grabs my gun, wrenching my wrist sideways. The weapons falls to the floor. He is incredibly strong and determined to kill me any way he can. His hand closes around my throat and I feel the lack of oxygen immediately. I reach for the knife on my belt but I can’t get to it. I drive my knee into his gut with all my might. He heaves and his grip loosens. His hesitation allows me the split second I need to pull my knife from my belt.

My turn.

I grip the handle firmly and drive it up into his chest. He cries out in pain and I use the strength of my legs to push his body off mine. I pull the knife out, hot blood ru

I breathe hard, looking around for Chris. Where is he?

He has vanished into the chaos of the ballroom. There is a struggle in the far side of the room. I raise my head above the table just enough to see Chris take someone and slam their body against the wall. The poor sucker is crushed by the sheer power of Chris’s muscle mass.

“He’s down, he’s down!” someone shouts.

I stand up.

Chris is kneeling over a thin man in a National Guard uniform. Chris’s knee is on his chest, his hand around his throat. There is a gun just out of the man’s reach. Andrew picks up the weapon, examining it closely.

“Who is he?” I breathe.

Uriah shakes his head.

“No idea,” he says. “My best guess… an Omega spy.”

“Who are you?” Chris growls.

The man laughs. It’s a cruel sound.

“You’re going to die,” he says gruffly. “All of you. You can’t stop Omega.”

He jerks his head toward me. Even though he can’t see me — or touch me — I feel like I’ve been slapped. A dark, ugly feeling of foreboding squeezes my chest like an icy fist.

Chris punches the man in the face, and he goes out like a light.

“Take him,” Chris says, rising. He looks at Uriah.

I take a few steps closer as the guards gather the man’s limp, unconscious body. As far as anyone knew, he — and the man who tried to stab me — was a soldier in the militia just like everybody else here.

Not anymore.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “He shot the man behind me.”

I turn, seeing the dead officer at the table behind ours.

“No,” Chris replies, his voice dark. “He was aiming for you.”

He places his hand on my shoulder.

We’re not safe here, either. We’re not safe anywhere.

The shooter’s name is Luther. The man who tried to stab me is in critical condition, in a jail cell somewhere. Luther is sitting in a room with concrete walls and a one-way window. I stare at him through protective glass, watching his bloodshot eyes dart to the door.

“He’s not insane,” Devin says, standing there, arms crossed. “He’s an infiltrator. An Omega hack.”

Chris pauses. “We had an infiltrator aiming a laser at the Capitol Building dome in Sacramento,” he says. “And now you’ve got an assassination attempt on a California senator inside what should be an impenetrable compound.”

“It was impenetrable,” Devin replies. “This guy is a patrol, a grounds guard. Remember Commander Amal, the Mediator in the Negotiations? She’s the Commander of the militia group Seahawks. He’s one of her men. Supposed to be trustworthy.”

“Trusting people is the first mistake we make,” I murmur. “Trust no one.”

Devin and Chris remain silent. My words sink in and I watch the spy in the interrogation chamber. He is not a psych case. He is calmly, defiantly sitting there, fully aware of what he has done.