State of Alliance

“Well, Commander,” Harry says, pushing the flap aside on the tent, “it’s time to start the show. Care to join me? I’ve got a matinee showing.”

“Enough theatrics, Harry,” I reply. “Seriously.”

He grins and offers his hand. I rise from my sitting position on the cot and follow him outside. It is early morning. The fog is still heavy. The sun is dimly glowing behind the clouds.

“This way,” Harry encourages.

He is flushed, strangely excited. I do not trust him for a second.

The door to the Humvee that we arrived in several hours ago is open.

“After you,” Harry says, mockingly offering me the door.

I lift my chin and get into the vehicle, knowing that I have no choice.

I keep my hands in my lap, my eyes staring out the window as Harry climbs in to sit behind me, three guards in the vehicle with us, including a driver. I feel claustrophobic, being trapped in a confined space with one of my most despised enemies. Harry, after all, is the same sadistic man who captured Chris and tortured him in an Omega prison in Los Angeles.

If I had any love for Harry, it vanished when he hurt Chris.

The Humvee moves in line with the small convoy. We head toward the coastline. I can barely make out the Pacific Ocean. It is a dull gray in the foggy morning light, an ode to things to come, I fear.

The Humvee is driving down a side road. I can’t see how close we are to the main highway. We stop at the crest of a small hill. The engines cut out, the doors open, and Harry laughs.

“It’s show time,” he says.

I get a sick feeling in my stomach.

I follow him outside, where he makes me stand at the front of the Humvee.

“Watch,” he tells me, buttoning the top button in his black overcoat. A red piece of cloth is tied around his forearm. It reminds me of the Nazi Gestapo uniform from the 1940s.

Is Omega any different?

No.

I follow Harry’s line of sight. The other Omega officers in this group are smiling and watching the horizon, gleeful. I squint, then recognize the slight crescent shape of the Monterey Peninsula in the distance.

And then, just off the coastline, I see ships. Four of them. Large warships, surrounding the little harbor like a wall. I suck in my breath, praying, No, no, no! This can’t be happening! Not after all the sacrifices we’ve made — all the battles we’ve already fought!

“Our warships are quite deadly,” Harry brags. “I’m sure this battle will be over very shortly, fortunately for your forces.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, I hear the explosion. It is similar to the detonation in Sacramento at the Capitol Building. It is a massive strike. I see the rolls of smoke and the rumbling aftershock of the explosion reaches us even here, across the bay. There is a second strike, then a third one. All of them hit buildings and key installations along the coastline.

I raise my hands to my lips, horrified.

Monterey is under attack, and there is nothing I can do about it.

Chapter Thirteen

I grab Harry by the shoulders and slam him backward against the hood of the Humvee. “How could you do this?” I demand, tears burning in my eyes. “I

Two Omega guards grab my arms and pull me off Harry, forcing me to the ground. One of them slams the butt of his rifle into the back of my neck. I flinch from the pain and hang my head, heaving.

“Good people, bad people,” Harry replies, “what’s the difference, really? We’ve all got bad in us, so we’re all bad. It’s just a matter of who’s stronger.”

“It’s a matter of choosing the good over the bad,” I say defiantly. “That’s what makes us who we are — that’s what defines us.”

Harry shakes his head.

“Take her away,” he commands. “Keep her safe and sound until the moment arrives.” He mock bows. “Pardon me, Senator. I’ve got the rest of Monterey to destroy, and so little daylight to work with.”

The guards drag me away, stuffing me into a different vehicle — a white, retrofitted pickup truck. They surround me. My neck is throbbing from the blow of the guards’ rifle, and I am trembling.

Did they blow up the postgraduate school? Is Chris dead? Is everyone I know gone? They can’t be. They just can’t…

I stop my train of thought, forcing myself to focus. The truck veers back onto the little road, disappearing into the fog. It’s just us. Two guards and the driver. I am in the center seat, staring at the console up front. I keep my hands flat against my hips, slowly slipping the fingers of my right hand into my pocket.

The small pocketknife that Jonas didn’t take is still there. Harry didn’t think to search me again, assuming that Jonas had already taken care of everything. Stupid move. Harry is brilliant in many ways, but he tends to miss the obvious.

The rumble of the engine in the car is enough to drown out the sound of me painstakingly opening the knife with one hand. I swallow when the blade clicks into the upright position, eyes darting sideways. The guards are oblivious, staring straight ahead, guns in their laps.

I curl my right hand around the handle of the blade and casually remove my hand from my pocket, keeping the knife just under my thigh, the flat of the blade against my pants.

This will have to be quick, I think. Very quick, or I’m dead.

Despite the fact that Harry wants to keep me alive — for the sole purpose of hanging my kidnapping over Chris’s head — I know for a fact that these Omega guards won’t hesitate to kill me if I make a move.

So I’ll get one chance, and only once chance.

I realize that the drive to the crest of the hill was only about ten minutes, so I count to sixty over and over again until I reach five minutes. We are in the middle of fog, with no one around us or beside us.

I steel my nerves.

I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on the handle of the knife. I am still buzzing with adrenaline and anger from seeing the missile strikes on Monterey, so I take advantage of the fearlessness that comes from fury. I move quickly. I use my left hand to grasp the head of the guard on my left. I grip his hair, sliding my fingers under his helmet and slamming his head against the seat in front of him. I jam the blade into the base of his skull, where the brain stem co

I do it quickly, in a split second.

I pull the blade out as he slumps forward, paralyzed.

The guard on my left is a second too slow. He makes a move to grab the knife, but I turn my body and place my boot on the door of the pickup, using the flat of my back as a sort of shield. I use the leverage I have against the door to push back and turn, thrusting the knife in the back of his neck, as well. It is a painful, horrible injury and he is momentarily frozen with the shock. I jab again, compounding the lethal blow.

My hands are slicked with hot, sticky blood.

I wrench the rifle out of the guard’s hands — the one on my left — and shove the cold, steely muzzle of the weapon into the back of the driver’s skull.

“STOP THE TRUCK!” I command.

He veers off the road, diving into a chain link fence and a grove of weeds. I hit the center console as the truck runs its tires into the dirt and the driver throws the vehicle into park. Heart pounding, I say, “Get out of the truck and throw your weapon on the ground.”

The driver barely manages to stumble out the door, tossing his rifle onto the ground, along with his knife. He heaves and then pukes onto the grass, shaking. I crawl into the front seat and jump outside.

I sling the rifle over my shoulder and grab the driver’s weapon.

“Give me your ammunition,” I say.

He does. He is pale. Sick.