State of Alliance

“See this fence?” I say, nodding to the chain link fence. “Put your hands flat against it and stare at the ocean. Count to five-hundred. You move and I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.”

He does as he’s told, wrapping his fingers around the chinks in the fencing, silent. I open the back door of the pickup and drag the dead guards on the ground.

I feel a twinge of guilt, of sadness.

And then it’s gone. I have no room for mercy in my heart today.

I take their guns and clips, too. I kick the side of the first guard’s boot.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” I say, turning to the guard grasping the fence. “The people with the stronger forces don’t win. The people with the stronger spirits do.”

I turn my back on the dead guards and the pitiful driver and slide behind the wheel of the pickup. I look at the fuel tank. Almost completely full. Finally, a stroke of good luck. I throw the truck into reverse and tear away from the fence, screeching onto the road, leaving hot, burnt rubber marks on the asphalt.

I see a sign that reads Cabrillo Highway, Highway 1.

I take the road, racing at breakneck speed through the fog.

My heart is still racing, my breath is short. I am covered in blood. It’s still warm, and it makes me sick. Sick that I have to kill people to save my own life. Sick that I have to kill people to save the lives of others.

I have so much blood on my hands.

The image of the Virgin Mary and the crucified Jesus flashes through mind.

“I’m not a murderer,” I whisper aloud. “I’m a soldier.”

I repeat those words until I believe them.

I hit the city limits of Seaside, just minutes away from downtown Monterey. I know that I am out of enemy territory when I see the United States Military vehicles driving down side roads. But the atmosphere is different, now. The calm structure of safety is gone. Black smoke is rising from the shorelines, smearing the sky with darkness. There are sirens. A pall has been cast over the city.

We are no longer safe. We are under attack.

We were never safe in the first place, I think.

I take the first exit, Del Monte, and floor it down the boulevard, around the corner. I reach a checkpoint and slam on my breaks. I’d forgotten about the checkpoints. Being blown up, kidnapped and barely surviving an escape rattled my brain a little more than I’d like to admit.

The checkpoint is made up of a barrier of sandbags and roadblocks. There is a guardhouse. Two National Guardsmen exit the building and walk to the window, weapons held tightly in their hands.

“Cassidy Hart,” I say. “Commander, Senator. I don’t have identification, I just—”

“Commander,” the first guy says. He’s fairly young with bright red hair. “We thought you were killed off the coast.”

“I should have been,” I reply.

“We’ll get you an escort into the city,” he replies. “This way, ma’am.”

I get out of the truck, toting the rifle and the ammo magazines with me. I leave the truck ru

“You need a medic,” the redhead says. “Where are you wounded?”

“This isn’t my blood,” I answer.

He nods.

We walk into the guardhouse. It is a tiny building with a desk and a radio.

“I need you to get a message to Commander Young first,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell him that I’m alive, and that I’ll meet him wherever he wants.”

The guy picks up the receiver on the radio.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“That should do it.”

I look at the name tape on his uniform: O’Byrne.

“Thank you,” I say.

“They’re going to be happy that you’re alive,” he replies.

He squeezes the radio set.

“This is Eagle Eye to Home Run,” he says. “Come in, Home Run.”

A woman’s voice answers. It is Vera Wright.

“This is Home Run, Eagle Eye. What’s your situation?” she asks.

“Home Run, we’ve got good news,” O’Byrne says. “I’ve got Yankee One here in the guardhouse with me, alive and ready to get back in the game.”

A pause.

“Unbelievable,” Vera replies, matter-of-fact. “I’ll relay the news to the council and the officers.”

“Yankee One wants to know where she should meet Alpha One and the rest of his unit,” O’Byrne says, watching my face.

“The Wharf,” Vera answers. “Immediately.”

“Over and out, Home Run.”

“Over and out.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Vera didn’t say that Chris was dead.

He’s alive, he’s alive. Good news.

“Is there anyone else I should radio before we take you to the wharf?” O’Byrne asks. “Maybe Costas? He’s been going crazy trying to track you down. He was convinced you weren’t dead — he was even down here earlier this morning, asking us if we’d seen you.”

“Costas?” I repeat, puzzled. “You mean Elle Costas? The bomb girl?”

“No. Ma

I nod.

“Yeah, I know him,” I reply, distant. “I’ve just… I didn’t know his last name until now.”

“I thought the two were related,” O’Byrne shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t put things together so well. This way, Commander. The city’s under attack, we don’t need to waste time with chit-chat.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I hate chit-chat.”

O’Byrne hops into an armored SUV. I get into the passenger seat.

“We’ll be there in just a few minutes,” he promises. I fasten my seatbelt. It is a habit I have forced myself to keep ever since I survived an IED bombing in a Humvee. Sometimes seatbelts save your life, in more ways than one.

“So how did you do it?” O’Byrne asks.

I watch the scenery flash by. The calm, collected military exterior of the city has vanished. It’s all gone, washed away. Our military forces are no longer in the center of the city — they’re on the coastline, combating Omega’s warships.

But do they know about the five-hundred troops hiding just twenty miles out of the city? Surely somebody must have spotted them!

“Do what?” I ask.

“Escape. I mean, I assume that’s what you did,” O’Byrne clarifies. “They found the remains of the Coast Guard cutter. Searched everywhere for your body. Couldn’t find you among the dead.” He shrugs. “They assumed you’d either sunk to the bottom or survived, somehow. Commander Young took a SEAL team into the bay and dived during a search.”

My chest tightens.

Oh, Chris. Doing everything he possibly could to bring me back.

This is why I love him. Well. One of many reasons, but still.

“I was rescued by a fisherman,” I say. “How random is that? His name was Jonas. He turned me into Omega for the reward, I guess. Who knows what Omega gave him in exchange for me.” I shake my head. “I got lucky, saw an opportunity to escape. I took it, and now I’m here. That’s really all there is to it.”

O’Byrne glances at the blood on my clothes.

I know what he is thinking: There is way more to the story than that.

He’s right, but I’m not in a storytelling mood.

We follow Del Monte Road and curve past the iron bars of the Naval Postgraduate School. We take it down to the harbor, but instead of going through the tu

“What are they doing to the boats?” I ask.

“The ballasts are made of lead,” O’Byrne says. “A couple of tons of lead, actually. It’s a great way to get bullets.”

“Are we that low on ammunition?” I ask, worried.

“We’re in a state of war,” O’Byrne replies. “And every little bit helps.”