Copyright © 2025 by CC Robinson

Published in the United States by Manifold Publishing, LLC, Cincinnati, OH.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests contact the author at info@ccrobinsonauthor.com.

No content contained within this work was generated using artificial intelligence (AI). No content contained within this work may be regenerated, repurposed, or processed using AI in any capacity, as this work is not part of the public domain.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Robinson, C.C. (Christine Genelle), 1971- , author. | Leitensdorfer, Anna, Illustrator.

Title: Caged : book two in the divided series / C.C. Robinson.

Description: Cincinnati, OH :Manifold Publishing, 2025. | Series: Divided series ;  book 2. | Includes 2 b&w maps. | Summary: Rose must escape her enemies' cage to stop them from destroying her city and the Underground's hope for the future. Even after she escapes, she must unite the Underground and stop her enemies' schemes in time. |Audience: Ages 13+.

Identifiers: LCCN 2025908844 | ISBN 9781962912075 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781962912068 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH:Dystopias – Fiction. | Prisoners – Fiction. | Mothers and daughters – Fiction. | Race relations – Fiction. | Bildungsromans. | BISAC: YOUNG ADULT FICTION/ Dystopian. | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Coming of Age. | YOUNG ADULT FICTION /Action & Adventure / General.

Classification: LCC PS3618.O25 C34 2025 | DDC 813 R--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025908844

Maps by Anna Leitensdorfer

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Map of Queenstown

Map of the Federated Republic of America

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Chapter Fifteen

16. Chapter Sixteen

17. Chapter Seventeen

18. Chapter Eighteen

19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

21. Chapter Twenty-One

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

26. Chapter Twenty-Six

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

30. Chapter Thirty

31. Chapter Thirty-One

32. Chapter Thirty-Two

33. Chapter Thirty-Three

34. Chapter Thirty-Four

35. Chapter Thirty-Five

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

40. Chapter Forty

41. Chapter Forty-One

42. Chapter Forty-Two

43. Chapter Forty-Three

44. Chapter Forty-Four

45. Chapter Forty-Five

46. Chapter Forty-Six

47. Chapter Forty-Seven

48. Chapter Forty-Eight

49. Chapter Forty-Nine

50. Chapter Fifty

51. Chapter Fifty-One

52. Chapter Fifty-Two

53. Chapter Fifty-Three

54. Chapter Fifty-Four

55. Chapter Fifty-Five

Also by CC Robinson

Acknowledgements

About the Author

To my parents, Miki and Dale.

Thanks for opening all my emails and liking every Facebook post

To my in-laws, Bob and Carlene.

Thank you for all your cheerleading and

for buying ten copies of every paperback.

I see you all in your YA dystopian era.

Content Warnings:

gun violence, death on page (including an execution),

torture on page (waterboarding, assault, and deprivation),

and allusions to abuse and neglect of children.

There is no sexual content and only made-up curse words.

"Our allies will stand with us during these dark days. Already, container ships full of new electrical equipment are on their way to our heartland from China, Russia, North Korea, and Cuba. Accompanying these will be teams of electrical workers, demolition experts, and transportation contractors, everything our nation needs to emerge from darkness and from merely surviving. We will rebuild this great nation! One road. One streetlight. One power plant. One building at a time. No longer will the international community despise the Federated Republic of America. No longer will this great nation be thrust aside with our fall from electrical power. No, under my leadership, working together, we will bring the Federated Republic of America back into international power, back into prosperity like the world has never seen before, and back into the light."

- excerpt from Supreme Commander Martin's first radio address to the new Federated Republic of America

1

Rose walked away from Mayor Kim’s office door in Queenstown’s Central Administrative Building, or CAB for short, frustrated at her inability to pick the lock. While Carrie Wang, her mom’s long-time mentee, had taught her lock-picking skills years ago, Rose had little practice. She longed to find out why her mother was in hiding — and why Sophie had left Queenstown without even saying goodbye to her only child — and figured the first place to search should be her mother’s boss’s office. Kim’s office had not just the usual door lock, but also a deadbolt and a keypad. Rose had locked out the display trying various birthdates and wanted to beat her head against the wall.

And who knew if Rose could ever return to Central after using her Queenstown College identification to convince the Little Asian gate guard to let her in? She hoped it worked a second time, although she no longer had to go to the College for her program’s training sessions. The last thing Rose needed right now was to have to answer pointed questions about where she’d been or what she’d been doing, especially after escaping Chul’s oversight once again. Who knew Chul slept like the dead and the guard on her door liked to sneak in middle-of-the-night smoke breaks?

She sighed, heading toward the CAB’s back stairwell. Maybe she’d try to break into the Ivory council offices?

Voices drifted toward her as she descended the tiled stairs.

Who would be at the CAB in the middle of the night? Theoretically, she should be alone except for the sleeping night guard, whom she’d snuck past earlier.

Mindful to not squeak her rubber soles on the floors, Rose darted up the stairwell.

“But, how do we…” a woman’s voice drifted through the stairwell door on the third level holding the Ivory and Havana council offices.

Rose wiped sweat from her forehead and paused.

“Madame Secretary, let’s discuss this in my office,” a male voice said.

Rose inched her face upward until only her eyes and forehead were above the security door’s thick glass window. The Federated Republic of America’s illustrious Secretary of State Juanita Gonzalez, in her trademark bright fuchsia pants suit, preceded Hudson Britwell and Junior into an office along the right-hand side of the hallway. Junior, the National Director of Prisons, had been in Queenstown since Rose’s acceptance into the elite physicist training program. But why was he still here? Didn’t he have important business elsewhere? Especially after Rose and her friends had liberated one of the secret labor camps outside Queenstown just days previously.

What in Martin’s macrocosm was Britwell doing out of the Central Prison?

Last Rose had seen, Tío was driving off after they had freed QT3, with Britwell and a gaggle of QT3 guards headed for Ivory patrol offices. Sam and Jason had assured everyone Captain Foster would arrest Britwell. That Junior hung out with Hudson Britwell, Jason’s manipulative, power-seeking father, didn’t shock Rose in the least. But the three of them together and Hudson no longer imprisoned? Something was up, and it wasn’t good.

But then, Rose had returned to her life as usual, locked up in her condo studying physics. Aside from the intellectual stimulation the program provided, Rose sensed that something far bigger than just training physicists in acoustical and nuclear physics was at play. But what?

And now with Britwell out of prison, Junior and the Secretary of State still in Queenstown, and the three of them secretly meeting together in the middle of the night, Rose had to get to the bottom of it all.

Rose groaned.

This was a mess and a half, and Rose had no way of getting a message to Jason or Sam, to let them know Hudson Britwell was walking free and, clearly, still scheming.

She dropped her hands to her sides and trudged down to the first level. She wouldn’t be getting answers tonight, nor was she sure how she’d escape her patrol minders again. Though Britwell’s office would be a great place to find those answers, or so she suspected.

Rose lifted her feet, rolling heel to toe across the marble floor of the CAB’s grand lobby. The night guard didn’t stir, his head tilted back against his chair and his snores echoing around the marble space.

How could anyone sleep like that? Had Britwell drugged him? Or maybe this guard always slept on duty, and Britwell knew that?

Rose turned away from the guard, a bright object inside the city council’s meeting room catching her eye. She crept into the large conference room full of dark woods and filled bookshelves, and wondered who’d added a floor-to-ceiling mirror. She’d been here as a kid when her mother had started working for Mr. Kim, back when a single mom could still bring her child to work on the weekends. Rose had spent long days inside this room, reading the dusty tomes of civil law and official Federated Republic of America history. Of course, she’d barely understood a quarter of it, and perhaps that was why she’d drifted toward science and math instead of administration or history.

But this mirror had never been here. She would’ve noticed it and stood for hours in front of it or fingered its ornate frame, which she did now.

Rose ran her left hand over the side of the frame, marveling at the detailed etchings of flowers and curves and teardrops which caught the light from the lobby chandelier. Some were carved into the metallic frame, while others lifted out of it. An artist must’ve spent hours creating the intricate details.

But why display it in the city council room? It seemed like it belonged in Martin’s Palace in Martinsburg.

Her left index finger caught on a raised button, and Rose gasped. She examined the disguised button inside a teardrop and pressed it. With a loud click, the mirror swung open, revealing a bare wooden staircase descending into darkness.

Rose pivoted.

She was still alone. The guard slept at his post. No voices echoed through the lobby or from the stairwells. Did she dare head down the stairs? She had to see where this led, perhaps understand why the mirror concealed a secret entrance into the very place where the city’s power brokers met.

Rose closed the door behind her and descended the staircase, gently placing one foot onto the stair below to prevent the wood from creaking. Lights inside the tunnel flicked on and Rose jumped backward, the staircase swaying and creaking. She jumped to the bottom, landing on all fours on a dirt floor.

Broad wood beams held up the rough-hewn dirt walls and ceiling, naked bulbs punctuating the ceiling every ten or so feet. Rose raced down the tunnel’s length and up the staircase on the other side. She unlocked the simple bolt from the tunnel side and entered thick darkness.

Rose stepped to the side, allowing the light from the tunnel’s ceiling bulbs to pierce into this space.

She was inside a cleaning closet. Various brooms, mops, a bucket, and a standing sink littered the floor between her and a flimsy wooden door. She crossed the cement floor, stepping over a mop handle, around a rolling bucket, and opened the door into an empty hallway.

Where was she? That tunnel hadn’t been very long, so Rose thought she was still inside the Central area. But this definitely wasn’t the CAB.

She slowed her breathing and told herself to listen and observe in silence.

Rose didn’t dare turn on any lights, so she creeped down the hallway toward the moonlight streaming into a large open space. Bare shelves arranged into rows filled the sides of the open warehouse, but otherwise the space was empty. But Rose couldn’t tarry. Couldn’t risk Hudson Britwell or Junior seeing her at the CAB after hours. Nor could she leave any sign that this secret tunnel was no longer so secret.

She backtracked to the closet and the tunnel entrance, closing the doors and throwing the locks. Rose thought she knew which warehouse she’d ended up in, but she had to be sure. Plus figure out how to get inside.

Rose emerged from the warehouse’s loading dock area into the humid night air, the sound of the Martin River burbling ahead of her. The river walk, with its overgrown shrubbery and dense weeds, was directly ahead of her. That meant the rest of the city lay behind her. Rose spun, stopping when the Central Administration Building came into view, directly to her west.

The tunnel had led her just one building over.

Who needed a secret tunnel accessing the city council room? Why not use the front door? Or if someone wanted secrecy, why not pick the flimsy lock on the CAB’s back loading dock?

It made little sense to Rose, who shook her head and made her way back toward Little Asia. If nothing else, Rose now knew another way into the CAB, bypassing the front door and guards on duty.

***

The next morning, Rose stood at the window in her eat-in kitchen in Little Asia, staring over the wall toward Havana. She wished she could see anything more than a blur of movement on the other side of the wall. The wall’s sonic field obscured details, turning people into moving blobs and buildings into stationary blobs. Most residents of her tower probably didn’t bother examining the blobs on the other side of the wall, but Rose couldn’t resist. Despite having been under the walls in the tunnels and outside the walls through the Underground’s HQ and out into the abandoned city, she yearned to explore her city’s other areas.

And sneaking out of Little Asia and into Central the night before only heightened her claustrophobic feeling. Coming back in had triggered serious retribution from Captain Romel, Little Asian patrol captain, and instead of one door guard, Rose now had a rotation of two guards 24/7.

She scoffed. She’d escaped her house arrest twice, but doubted she could do so again.

The first time, Amy had pulled the tower’s fire alarm. The two friends had escaped, and Rose had brought Amy into the Underground. That’s when Rose had helped Marcos and Jason free the labor camp, QT3, where Marcos had been held as a prisoner and Jason had served as the director.

Rose was proud of her role in removing the secret and illegal labor camp from the area surrounding Queenstown but wondered why Martin hadn’t yet retaliated. Surely he knew who’d been involved, given the ever-present regime cameras.

Perhaps Junior and the Secretary of State had suppressed that information, kept it from Martin to hide their own failure?

With his cameras and monitoring, Martin would eventually find out, right? And what about everyone who’d helped free the camp? Surely the Underground had considered that and was readying for Martin’s retaliation.

Rose could do nothing to help. She couldn’t warn them that Hudson Britwell was no longer in prison. Were any of the former camp guards still in Central Prison? Somehow, Rose doubted it. If Junior could free Britwell, then of course he’d free the camp guards. But why?

And if Martin didn’t know he’d lost one of his camps, how long did they have until he found out? Rose felt like her entire life stood on a knife’s edge. One revealed secret would tip her life into chaos — or prison.

Then there’d been last night, the second time Rose had escaped her house arrest. That’s when she’d realized Hudson Britwell was no longer in prison and seemed to have unfettered access to Queenstown, which made no sense.

And yet, she was stuck in her condo.

It wasn’t fair. In fact, it stunk.

She turned from studying the people blobs on the small Havana side street and instead examined the wall dividing Little Asia and Havana. Concrete block topped with barbed wire and glass shards, the wall was an impregnable behemoth. No one could scale its side due to the sonic repulsive field — and if they could, the glass and barbed wire would shred their limbs into ribbons.

Marcos had told their rebel group about his friend at the labor camp who’d died trying to escape a simple chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Rose had seen that fence, and it was nothing compared to the wall surrounding her area and her city. She shivered at the thought of trying to escape the walls surrounding Queenstown.

Then there were the towers spaced intermittently along the wall. Guards overlooked each area, with binoculars — which must fix whatever light-bending trick the sonic barrier on the wall created — held to their eyes. Rose had watched as the guard in the tower had radioed to colleagues on the ground. Citizens had been stopped and searched, or worse, arrested.

Rose would love to get her hands on those binoculars, to see how they worked. If something so simplistic could subvert the sonic effect, it opened up the possibility of counter-acting the sonic field on a larger scale.

Then again, if binoculars could subvert the sonic field’s effect, then why couldn’t a person resist being thrown backward if they got too close to the wall? Her mind noodled on the physics involved, the acoustics of the wall itself, and potential mechanisms for negating the sonic field’s impact.

But to what end?

Even if someone made it up and over the wall without the barbed wire or glass catching them and then also dodged the tower-based patrols, how would they last five minutes in another area without patrols arresting them? Most citizens would stick out like a sore thumb in another area.

Perhaps Rose could pass for Havana with her darker skin — if her hair frizzed out and Rose let it go. That was a big “if” to risk an incursion into another area. And forget about passing for Ivory or Obsidian. She snorted to herself. No way.

She dropped her arms to her sides and cleared her mind, returning to her virtual training session on the laptop. The program administrator had ordered the heavy brick of a laptop, especially for her.

Lucky Rose.

Now the Martin regime had yet another method of spying on her — on top of the many muted listening devices still lurking in her condo. Rose knew the regime wouldn’t spare her forever from retaliation for her role in the labor camp’s liberation. She felt like there were eyes lasered at the back of her head wherever she went, even inside her own bathroom.

If only her mother would return to Queenstown and face the music of her disappearance. Ha. As if. Rose wouldn’t hold her breath on that, given her mother hadn’t even told Rose she was leaving the city. And despite Chul’s presence 24/7, Rose had to admit the condo was far too quiet.

She needed an ally against the Little Asian patrol surveillance and house arrest.

Staff Sergeant Hernandez called them back to class. It was time for Rose to stop her spiraling thoughts and get back to work.

2

Marcos entered the formerly dusty warehouse — now a completely occupied refugee center — with a backpack loaded with rations bars and rice packets. It wasn’t much, but the hundreds of people hiding out between HQ and this building needed food. He wasn’t sure how much longer the Underground could feed everyone. On a normal day, the FRA’s citizens teetered on the edge of starvation. Taking food out of the mouths of operatives’ families felt like robbing one desperate group to feed another.

It had been a week since Marcos and the other Underground operators had liberated the secret labor camp outside Queenstown. QT3 was now a memory, but some of the freed laborers already complained of the lack of food. How they’d eaten better while being imprisoned.

Marcos understood. He was hungry, too. It wasn’t like he could walk into Havana and pick up his family’s rations. He had to sustain his body on the same meager portions as everyone else here. And, despite how often his stomach grumbled, Marcos wasn’t complaining.

Freedom versus a full belly.

Never mind Marcos wondered if the Martin regime didn’t know exactly where its former prisoners lay their heads at night. He kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for the hover planes and patrol officers to descend on the warehouse and arrest them all. This time, he doubted they’d receive the mercy of a labor camp. He suspected if the regime found them, they’d be dead.

He approached the Havana leader who had taken charge of the food.

“Abuela,” he said. “Here’s what Roberto could scrounge up from the Driver Depots across Queenstown. Tío is working on something with a city council member — he won’t say who, but if he’s talking to my dad…”

“He’s not,” she said, taking the proffered backpack. “It’s someone else. Don’t worry. And did you see the medics yet? Harriet is part of the squad removing everyone’s chips.”

“What? Removing everyone’s chips? What did I miss?”

The frustration of not knowing who on the city council helped them melted away in the face of the bigger problem. Why hadn’t he considered the regime could track them using their identification chips? He palmed his forehead.

Abuela slung his backpack on her shoulder and patted his arm. “A lot happened in the hours you were gone. Captain Foster put two and two together. Summoned Sam when he realized the regime could track the freed laborers through their chips. That man has a conscience after all because he doesn’t want the regime to know where the prisoners went after we liberated the camp.”

“So, let me guess,” Marcos interjected. “Sam recruited Harriet to remove the chips?”

Abuela smiled, and Marcos scanned every face in the warehouse, looking for Harriet. “Sure did. But Marcos?”

Marcos turned back, his foot tapping out a fast rhythm. “What? Where is she? Where are they doing this? I really need mine removed, too.” Never mind Marcos didn't want the regime tracking him on his nightly runs through the city.

“Yes, you will. But we aren’t removing the chips here,” she said. “Evidently they log the last location before being dismantled. We’re sending everyone in shifts to a nearby half-destroyed office building. It’s just down the block. Go get yours removed now.”

It was only after he’d left Abuela that Marcos noticed the large bandages on some of the refugees’ forearms, exactly where his own chip lay untouched.

Right before he walked out the door of the warehouse and past the sentries on duty, Abuela’s sharp whistle sounded. It was obvious where her son, Tío, learned that trick.

“Numbers four hundred ninety-five through five hundred twenty-one, please come collect your meal,” Abuela’s shout filled the space.

Marcos had been relieved when Abuela relocated full time to HQ. She had acted like everyone’s grandmother in his Havana area — thus earning her nickname — and now had the refugees all organized. They had rotations for everything; eating, bathing, and other chores. Despite the limited food supply, everyone ate regularly. Pregnant women and children were the only refugees who received three meals a day.

Marcos jogged down the block to join the back of the chip-removal line, thoughts swirling in his head. Why hadn’t Martin already found them and killed them while they slept? Or worse, sent his army after them to take them all prisoner again? It made no sense.

The only reason Marcos could come up with was Martin didn’t yet know what had happened. That somehow Jason dismantling the camp’s communication and sending warnings ahead to the other two Queenstown labor camps had short-circuited either of those camp directors from reporting what they’d heard.

Perhaps Martin knew but was delaying, an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse with the refugees as the pawn between Martin and Queenstown? Perhaps their Supreme Commander knew everything but was waiting to see how the city council would respond?

“Marcos!” A warm body slammed into him, and Marcos wrapped his arms around his friend, Harriet.

“Harriet, how are you? Sorry you got roped into this,” said Marcos, bending down to look Harriet in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

She had a deep crease between her eyebrows, communicating a very different message than her joy at seeing him. Harriet glanced around. “Let’s get that chip out of you, stat.”

Marcos wrapped an arm around Harriet’s shoulders as she led him to her station. Another medic continued his work, removing the identification chip from another refugee’s arm before tossing it into a metal bucket where it joined a pile of others. The man cleaned the area, then applied a thick square bandage, taping the sides down.

The refugee smiled. “That didn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would,” the man said.

Marcos recognized him, but didn’t know his name. He nodded at the man and turned back to Harriet. “So, how’s this work?”

“It’s pretty easy,” she said, holding a patrol-issued chip scanner to his forearm. The device beeped, like when he got scanned into the Havana market or the depot, and she marked the spot with a pen. Setting the scanner aside, she sterilized the area. “This is going to hurt. Look away if it helps you.”

He’d just turned his head to the side when a sharp pain brought his gaze back to his left forearm. Harriet used a scalpel to cut away the chip, then pinched the device with tweezers, removing it from his forearm and chucking it into her own metal bin. She then poured an astringent into the wound. The burn of the astringent made him wince and want to withdraw his arm. He forced himself to remain still while she cleaned the area, wiped it dry, and bandaged it.

“There you go. Now you’re invisible to the regime.”

Marcos’s shoulders relaxed down, and he felt a weight lift from him. Invisibility was a good thing.

“Thank you,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“Marcos, I’m scared,” she said with her voice lowered. He leaned in. “All this made me realize the regime must know I’m out here. They can track us all. Why did I never think of that before?”

“But you’re out here anyway.”

Harriet nodded but cast her eyes downward. “I had to come. I couldn’t bear the thought of all of you dying in some hover plane attack. Or that the army could just show up at the warehouse and take you all captive again. I couldn’t let that be on my conscience. But what’s going to happen when Kelvin and I return to Obsidian?”

Now that Marcos thought of it, that was an issue. A huge issue. “Remove your chip and stay here with us. Forget the city.”

Harriet shook her head. “I can’t do that. Captain Johnson will go after my family if I disappear.”

“Can Xavier cover for you? Make something up? Tell his boss you snuck out somehow?”

“Would you believe me if I told you someone had snuck out of Obsidian? How would they do that? Marcos, I think you’re the only Queenstown citizen who’s ever escaped the walls. But now we know they must’ve tracked you.”

Dread filled his stomach. All of his friends’ lives were at risk now. Rose, Jason, Sam, and Harriet. And what about all the operatives who came and went from HQ?

“Everyone’s at risk!” Marcos whisper-shouted, grabbing Harriet by the shoulders. “You have to remove yours, and Rose’s, Jason’s, Sam’s, and all the other operatives, too!”

She shook her head, lifting his hands from her shoulders and squeezing them. “I can’t do that. And neither can the others. It’s a risk we have to take to make sure you all survive. Marcos, please.”

Please what? Sit here, safe, and watch the regime take everyone he loved away from him? Nope. But Harriet was almost as stubborn as Rose, and Marcos knew he wouldn’t convince her of anything just yet. She had a good reason to be scared. He’d be afraid if he were in her shoes. Did she realize how brave she was?

He circled around the small table where she’d dug into his arm and wrapped her into a tight Havana embrace. She patted his back. “I need to keep going. Kelvin and I only have a few more hours before we’re due back in Obsidian for a shift. And there are still so many refugees to work through.”

Marcos let his hands slide down her arms. He didn’t want to leave Harriet, afraid he’d never see her again. She called for the next in line, maneuvering past him to begin the process again.

He walked out of the half-standing building, past overturned desks and building chunks. He couldn’t dismiss the thought that his friends headed straight into execution as traitors for their involvement with the Underground and the camp’s liberation. Or worse, imprisonment. If the Martin regime could track Underground operatives all this time, why weren’t they all dead or in a labor camp?

He entered the warehouse, past sleeping refugees with bandages on their arms, around the food line and past a group of teenagers including Caroline and Sharlyn, the sisters he’d trained in the labor camp, who were playing a card game on the floor. Marcos passed into the tunnel underground. When the cool air hit him, Marcos hardly noticed. How many times had he run through the abandoned city? Leadership had forbidden the refugees from leaving the warehouse, but someone needed to check for any regime scouts or signs they’d been followed.

Marcos was the only refugee who’d wasted his limited calories on exercise. Not even Darcy or Michael had gone with him. With their lean rations, no one else had the energy to train or work, let alone run around the destroyed city, looking for scouts or patrols that hadn’t been there.

But perhaps all this time the regime had known exactly where they were and hadn’t cared? Or maybe they were waiting for something else?

He reached for the door into headquarters but it swung open, revealing Jason and Sam. Andrew Stewart trailed behind them.

Jason and Marcos exchanged their friend group’s handshake — a clasping of hands with the grip sliding up to hook thumbs, then walk along each finger, to a hip bump, and a high five to end. Harriet had taught it to them all after they’d worked together to free the labor camp. Seeing Jason made Marcos wonder how Rose was.

Marcos exchanged the same handshake with Sam, and then an Ivory handshake — so simple in comparison with its clasping of hands and no extras — with Andrew Stewart. Stewart was now the lone Ivory city council representative after Jason’s father, Hudson Britwell, had been arrested during the camp’s liberation.

Marcos shook his head at all the major life changes they’d experienced lately. No one inside Queenstown had any idea what had happened. The citizens of Queenstown didn’t even know the labor camps existed, let alone that there’d been a battle to free one. With miles between the camps and Queenstown, not even the explosions would’ve been heard inside the city.

“What’s up?” Marcos questioned Jason, who nodded at Andrew. “I got my chip removed, so thank you for passing along that intel. But now I’m worried about all our operatives still inside Queenstown.”

“Don’t be. It’s not as bad as you may think,” said Sam. “When Foster told us the patrols could track citizens without following them around, we were floored. But he said there’s one flaw — underground. Evidently the technology can’t track you if you’re in a basement or lower.”

Marcos exhaled heavily, his shoulders dropping. “Oh, Dios. That’s good news. So does this mean their signal gets lost once we head down into the tunnels?”

Jason pointed a finger-gun at Marcos. “Exactly right. He also said ‘most’ patrol captains only monitored civilians within the walls of their area. They don’t have the personnel to scan records beyond the city walls, and why would they? No one can get out, except you.” Jason lifted his eyebrows at Marcos. “You’re the only one brave — or stupid — enough to try. You’re a legend in patrols training sessions now.”

“I am?” Marcos pressed a hand into his chest, right above his heart, telling it to calm down. He was safe. No more chip to track him.

“Marcos, is Moses around here?” said Andrew, referring to Abuela’s husband and Marcos’s fellow former QT3 laborer. “We looked at HQ, but didn’t see him there. Possibly we missed him with all the kids running around.”

“Yeah, that place will never be the same again,” said Sam. “At least someone had the presence of mind to lock up the guns before turning the kids loose in there.”

“But the weights…” said Marcos.

“Also under lock and key,” said Jason. “We won’t be doing much training for a bit. But Mr. Stewart had an idea.”

“Andrew, please,” said Andrew, casting a frown at Jason. “My dad isn’t alive any longer, but he was always the Mr. in our home. I’m not that old.”

“Never said you were, sir,” said Jason, his cheeks heating with a blush as he examined his own feet.

Marcos smiled at his friend, trying not to laugh at how embarrassed Jason got about the most random things. “I’ll go grab Moses. He was at the other end of the center when I saw him last,” said Marcos. “We need you all to stay underground now that we know you can’t be tracked here.”

Without waiting for a reply, Marcos jogged off and up the wooden stairs into the warehouse. He dodged through groups of people locked in deep discussions and vaulted over others laid out in the middle of the space, enjoying an afternoon nap. Marcos wasn’t jealous at all. Nope. Even if he had the time for a nap, Marcos wasn’t sure he could fall asleep right now. He may never sleep well again, now that he knew how much his friends risked coming and going from HQ.

When he reached Moses, the man he looked up to like a grandfather or wise advisor waved him into the conversation.

“I was just going to find you,” said Moses. “Michael had an idea for organizing expedition parties into the abandoned city. I bet there’s still canned goods out there. And now that all our chips are gone, we can risk sending out search parties.”

Ew. Forty-five-year-old canned goods? Would they even be edible still? Marcos shuddered.

“Uh, well, I’m happy to organize scavenging parties, but Andrew Stewart is here and wanted to talk to you. Don’t know what about. Maybe we should see what he wants, then organize people to go scavenge?”

And while they were talking to Andrew, Marcos would come up with about eighty reasons why eating decades-old, canned goods wasn’t the solution they were looking for. He wished they could simply march into Central Depot and take a few pallets of canned goods or rations bars. But, no. That would be like waving a red flag at the Martin regime, saying “look over here, a rebel movement.” And maybe Martin already knew, but Marcos had no desire to poke the bear any further.

But forty-five-year-old canned goods? Marcos preferred to go hungry.

Moses clapped Marcos on the shoulder. “Let’s go talk with Andrew. Don’t want to keep a busy man like that waiting,” said Moses. “I’m sure things in Ivory are a little nuts after Hudson Britwell’s arrest.”

Marcos couldn’t imagine the mayhem that had created. Not only had they lost one of two city council reps for the area, but also the shoe factory manager. Who would replace him there? Had Jason’s father bothered to train anyone else to take his place? Given how narcissistic Hudson Britwell was, Marcos doubted anyone was ready to step into his factory management slot.

“Michael, you come, too,” said Marcos to his first friend from the labor camp. Michael had spared Marcos from punishment more times than Marcos could count. Plus, Michael had made sure Marcos got food many days when the guards assigned Marcos extra duties that extended through dinner. Anyone who fed Marcos was his friend.

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” said Michael. But his striking blue eyes — the feature everyone talked about — were locked on Darcy.

Ah, Marcos saw how it was. “She can come, too.”

Darcy had taken Win’s death hard. Marcos hadn’t seen her smile in days, not even when the kids acted silly or someone told a joke.

Michael wrapped an arm around Darcy’s shoulders, and she leaned into him. They were both of Ivory descent but looked completely different — Darcy with her rosy skin and bright blond hair piled high on top of her head in some bun thing, and Michael with his jet-black wavy hair, pale skin, and blue eyes.

Marcos placed a hand on Darcy’s back, rubbing the spot but staying silent. When someone in Havana grieved, everyone else was loud — telling stories of their loved ones’ lives, singing favorite songs, eating, and toasting. This quiet version of grieving made his skin feel too tight.

He’d known and loved Win too. Missed her brash comments and snarky sense of humor. So at every opportunity and to whomever would listen, Marcos told stories about her. That relieved the tension, at least temporarily.

When they approached Abuela, she folded Darcy into a tight Havana hug. Darcy cried silent tears on the woman’s shoulders.

Even though Abuela was from Havana, she’d been alive before the Great Civil War forty-five years ago. She’d fought against Martin and his drug gangs and had experienced a whole life in the free United States of America. That was before Martin took power and renamed the nation that had survived the nuclear attacks and the civil war as “The Federated Republic of America.” And before Martin had built the walls and locked citizens away from every other ethnicity but their own.

Abuela knew stuff. And Marcos worked hard to catch up. There was so much he wanted to learn about the other areas.

“Andrew Stewart is in the tunnels and wants to talk with you two,” said Marcos.

“Well, let’s not keep him waiting, then,” Abuela said, tucking Darcy under her arm, while Michael held Darcy’s other hand.

Maybe grieving in Ivory wasn’t so different from Havana. Darcy had received physical comfort from both Michael and Abuela, even if she couldn’t bear hearing Marcos tell stories about her best friend. Perhaps that would come with time.

When they reached the tunnels outside HQ, Andrew pulled them into a tight huddle away from the other refugees and lowered his voice.

“So, about the food and housing situation out here,” Andrew said. “I want to bring the Queenstown Mayor into the discussion about finding sustainable housing, food, and jobs for everyone.”

“Mayor Kim should know about the labor camps by now, right?” Marcos said. How could he not, since Captain Foster knew, and Hudson Britwell was behind bars in Central Prison?

Andrew tilted his head side to side. “It’s complicated. He knows, but not the entire council. City mayors in the FRA only have so much power.”

“Do you think the city council will help the refugees? Even acknowledging we exist may bring retribution from Martin onto the city.” Moses rubbed a hand down his jaw. “And if they do help us and let us integrate inside each area, I’m concerned about them splitting up mixed-ethnicity families. Or what they’ll do with the children who don’t fit neatly into one area or another. When Martin’s people divided everyone up decades ago, they only went by external appearance. No one checked birth records or asked people how they identified. We can do better this time. That’s assuming we don’t immediately begin taking the regime down. But maybe we’re not quite ready for that, yet?”

“One issue at a time, and I’m not sure we’re ready to tackle Martin quite yet. And what the council will do with the kids is a big concern,” said Andrew. “But I think we need to give them a chance, without telling them where the refugees are. We can’t keep up with so many peoples’ needs. Not without robbing the city’s distros blind and leaving our own citizens without rations. And that’s not fair, either.”

Marcos didn’t want to rob innocent people, either, which was why the refugees were going hungry, slowly but surely. Moses’s idea to scavenge forty-year-old canned goods didn’t sound so awful now.

“Who should approach the Mayor?” asked Abuela. “It would need to be several council members in his voting bloc. Who else would you invite into that discussion?”

“I was thinking Hector Alvarez—“

“No,” said Marcos. “Absolutely not. My father knew about the secret labor camps and still sent me out there. Endorsed the captain’s idea right in front of me. He doesn’t have an empathetic bone in his body. He’d let the refugees — including me — rot before he lifted a finger to help.”

“Then who else would you suggest?” said Moses, his head tilted at Marcos. “If he knew what you endured and that you were still alive, maybe he’d change his attitude. Especially now that Hudson Britwell is behind bars.”

Marcos propped his fists onto his hips and squared his shoulders. “Representative Mendoza isn’t locked up. And that’s who my father listens to the most. That’s who influenced him, who he wants to be like.” Marcos shook his head.

“There has to be someone else,” said Sam, locking gazes with Abuela.

She nodded. “It’s time to talk to Mr. White in Obsidian.”

Marcos couldn’t stop his eyebrows from rising toward his hairline. Someone was named Mr. White in an area where skin tones were definitely not white? So strange. But if this man was a secret Underground operative, then he was the perfect choice.

Andrew’s mouth formed an “O.”

Did Andrew not know the other area’s Underground leaders? He must not, given his reaction. It made sense to Marcos once he thought about it. Secrecy guarded the identities of those power brokers who were also Underground operatives in case someone got caught. But it made situations like this more difficult than they needed to be.

“Ok,” said Andrew. “Can we get a message to him to meet me at the CAB?”

“Absolutely,” said Sam.

“You bet,” said Abuela at the same time.

The two worked together to send Harriet a message before she returned to Obsidian. Marcos wondered if she’d dare deliver the message given how afraid she was, or maybe the message would go through a few intermediaries, thus removing Harriet from directly interacting with a city council rep.

Marcos wished they could use those radios from the camp’s liberation. But that was too risky for everyday things like a message. Anyone with a similar radio could intercept the communication, and the Underground would be none the wiser.

“Andrew, first, thank you for making sure we knew about the chips. We are almost done removing them from the entire refugee population. But I wanted to talk to you about something else,” said Moses, pulling Andrew and Abuela to the side. “Please excuse us.”

“How are you all holding up out here, Marcos?” said Jason. “And are you okay, Darcy?”

Darcy nodded, her eyes never leaving the floor. The rest of them exchanged glances over her head, and Michael pulled Darcy over to join a nearby group lounging against the tunnel wall.

“I feel terrible about her,” said Marcos. “Even with reduced rations, she’s barely eating. She hardly ever talks, and I can’t get her to laugh.”

Jason turned his head away from Marcos and wiped at his eyes.

Marcos almost smacked himself in the forehead. Jason’s mother had died the same day Win had died. His friend was also dealing with grief and loss. How insensitive of Marcos.

“She’s processing her grief the only way she knows how,” said Sam.

Marcos clapped a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Sorry, hermano. Sometimes I can be a pufferdoon — that’s the Ivory word, right? I didn’t mean to ignore your grief. But I’d love to hear some stories about your mother. I wish I could’ve met her.”

“Me, too,” said Jason. “She would’ve loved you. In fact, she would’ve loved to see all this. You know she knew Abuela, right?”

The three sat on the floor, and Jason shared stories of his mother’s life. Marcos was thankful to have friends like Jason and Sam, who accepted him for who he was and didn’t try to change him. He’d do right by them. If only he could figure out a way to attend Eleanor Britwell’s funeral to support Jason. Now that his chip was gone, Marcos could go anywhere without fear of being tracked. But how could he attend Eleanor’s funeral when he definitely wouldn’t blend in inside Ivory? No, he couldn’t risk it, even to support his grieving friend.

3

Harriet switched positions in the chair for the umpteenth time that night. The plastic upholstery crinkled with her movement. She set her training manual at her side.

She’d long since memorized the manual, so wasn’t sure why she bothered reading it tonight, other than there was little else to do. Despite working to remove the refugees’ chips all day, Harriet had energy to burn.

No calls. No emergencies. No frantic drives through Queenstown’s gates into other areas. No witnessing a city councilman commit murder by denying a man medical treatment.

Harriet should be thankful for the quiet overnight medic shift, but her mind wouldn’t rest, couldn’t slow down. She tapped her fingers on her thighs in an alternating rhythm to soothe her frayed nerves before she picked her cuticles raw.

Be worried for nothing was a noble sentiment, if she had a measure of control over the things which spun in her mind. But Harriet could no sooner provide jobs and food for hundreds of refugees or keep the Martin regime from discovering the rebel movement right under their noses than she could drum up something to do on a quiet shift. Nor could she stop patrols from trailing her across the entire Obsidian area. Why did they bother when they could sit in a warm, dark room and just follow her chip? That made little sense to Harriet. But not much the patrols — and especially their captain — did made any sense to Harriet.

And there she went again, thoughts spinning out of control.

“Hey there, Harriet.” Her boss, Dara, joined her on the couch, the plastic cushion screaming with the added weight. “What are you working on?”

“Trying not to die of boredom, honestly,” Harriet said. She tucked her manual into her backpack, as reviewing the material she’d mastered weeks ago seemed pointless to her. “By the way, thanks for not scheduling a certain someone on my shift.”

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable and it’s a simple thing to do,” said Dara. “Besides, I kind of agree with you about Dez.”

Harriet wished she didn’t need to avoid her long-time friend, Dez, but he kept tripping her inner wires. First, he wouldn’t leave her alone. Then he showed up everywhere she was. She’d heard rumors of him hanging out with the Obsidian patrols captain, who was public enemy number one to Harriet. But Dez, arriving at HQ without the Obsidian Underground leadership’s approval, had been the kicker for Harriet. Everything pointed to Dez collaborating with Captain Johnson. To what end, she couldn’t say. Was he a double-agent? Possibly. Or was he simply an informant about her movements to the captain? Both were bad news for Harriet.

“You do?”

Dara fingered her new engagement band, flipping the small diamond around her finger.

Harriet smiled and reached for Dara’s hand. Her boss extended her fingers and wiggled them, allowing Harriet to examine her ring.

“Kelvin did a great job, Dara. It’s lovely. You must be ecstatic.” Harriet released Dara’s hand and grinned at her.

Now that Harriet knew Kelvin was an Underground operative and had worked alongside him all day removing the refugees’ chips, she wondered if his new fiancé might also be an operative. But Dara had said nothing to Harriet, which was normal protocol, especially since they’d never trained together, and Harriet hadn’t seen Dara or Kelvin at HQ. Harriet had to assume Dara wasn’t an operative, until she knew otherwise.

Dara’s smile spread across her face, turning her average looks into a gorgeous sight. “I’m thrilled. We get married next weekend.”

Harriet hugged her boss and friend. “That’s excellent. You’ll be lovely, and I know you and Kelvin will have many years of happiness together.”

“I hope so,” said Dara. “We have a lot to figure out, like how to take care of two kids with us both being medics. But we have family willing to help.”

“Well, I’m thrilled for you,” said Harriet. “But I cut you off. You were going to say something about Dez or maybe not?”

“No, I see why you’re uncomfortable around him. He’s not bothered any of the other female medics, but it’s like he’s cataloging everything we all do. The way he observes is so… intense. I’m not explaining this very well.”

Harriet reviewed her interactions with Dez over the last few months, and maybe she could see what Dara meant. How Dez’s questions probed more at her life, her schedule, rather than him trying to get to know Harriet because he was interested in her as a woman. She’d known him forever — they were practically cousins. He knew she delivered messages for the Underground and was in training to deliver to other areas. What more would he want to know?

She drummed her fingertips on her temple, trying to work it out. Nothing added up.

Harriet exhaled a long sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s just how he is now. Maybe I never noticed how observant he is, or how he acted around me before. Maybe it’s just me making all this up. Sure, he’s oddly close with Captain Johnson, but that’s not a crime. And everything here is above-board, nothing to report. No crimes or criminal activity.”

Patrols trailing Harriet all around her area screamed a different story. Dez, the captain, her tails, suspicion on her family. When she added in her role in QT3’s freedom and the fact someone inside Obsidian patrols monitored her movements via her chip, Harriet’s nerves took flight. Did they not know she’d gone outside the city and had taken part in freeing the camp’s prisoners? If so, why hadn’t the regime — or worse, Obsidian Captain Johnson — rounded her up already? Or bombed the Underground and the freed prisoners to smithereens?

And could whomever monitored the city’s chips see the cluster of dots outside the city, slowly winking out of existence one-by-one as she and Kelvin had removed the chips, inactivating them? If they did, why hadn’t patrols interrupted the operation and arrested them all?

Add to all this Harriet’s reservations about returning to HQ when she had such tight patrol tails, and she had a veritable vegetable stew brewing in her brain and the sense of impending doom hunting her down.

Dara frowned, bringing Harriet’s spiraling thoughts to a crashing halt. “I’ll take your word on this, Harriet. But know I’m watching, too. I don’t want how he treats you to drive you out of medics. You’re too talented.” She stood, pressing her hands down her wrinkled scrubs, the engagement ring shining in the overhead fluorescent lighting. “I’m going to grab some sleep.”

“Good night, Dara,” said Harriet, her knees bouncing in a fast, alternating rhythm. “I’ll be in soon.”

But even if Harriet laid down in a perfectly silent, dark room, would she be able to sleep with all these thoughts swirling in her head? Doubtful.

4

Jason clenched his jaw and wiped the sweat off the side of his face. The walk in the blazing June sun from the gate into Central to the other side of his neighborhood had sapped Jason’s energy.

He touched his mother’s coffin as the pallbearers guided its wheels over a curb and into the Ivory cemetery.

His mother was gone. Dead.

He’d failed her. He’d failed in patrols. He’d failed in life.

His father had come out to the labor camp on the same night of that camp’s liberation with the news. No “come and sit with her while she takes her last breath.” Just “your mother’s dead.”

Hudson Britwell had killed his own wife. A year ago, Jason wouldn’t have thought his father capable of it. But now?

For sure. One hundred percent. He only needed the proof.

Hudson Britwell would murder anyone who stood in his way. After his role in the labor camp, Jason’s father sat in a cell in the Central Prison, awaiting trial. Captain Foster even considered reporting the secret labor camps’ existence to the International Tribunal, which meant going against the Martin regime. But Foster had put that idea off, not wanting Queenstown to suffer the consequences without support from somewhere. Could any nation face down the Martin regime and protect Queenstown, though?

Jason was so angry at his father. If Hudson Britwell were here, Jason would consider his murder just punishment. All along, his father had not only known about the camps but had sent citizens out there. Political enemies, entire families, others who questioned him. Add in Jason’s mother’s murder, and Hudson deserved a slow, tortuous death.

None of that helped Jason deal with his grief. Or his failure. He had chosen the camp liberation over sitting with his mother in her last days. Bonders. She’d pushed him to do that. But it didn’t make it right.

And now she lay in a coffin.

The coroner’s report on his mother’s death was still pending. Then his father could pay for that crime on top of the labor camp, if not for anything else he’d done over the years. Maybe then the weight on Jason’s shoulders would lift.

His white button-down shirt clung to his back under his wool suit. But there was no way he wasn’t wearing it today. He would honor his mother, even if shorts and a t-shirt better fit the weather. She would’ve liked this day, would’ve asked to sit outside and enjoy the sun.

So Jason enjoyed it for her.

The silent parade stopped at the deep, empty grave. The pallbearers placed his mother’s coffin on the lift and stepped back.

He sniffled back tears. “She was an amazing woman. I loved her so,” his voice trailed off and he ducked his head to let the tears spill down his face and onto the thready grass.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, “a traitor and a failure just like her.”

Jason blinked his tears away.

How had he been so blind to his father’s character? Growing up, others had told him Hudson Britwell had done this or that to their relatives, imprisoned them or had them executed or staged convenient accidents at the shoe factory. Jason had never believed them.

Until the fights started between his parents. Then, Jason had been conflicted. He’d hardly seen that vindictive side of his father, who’d always showered compliments and affection on Jason. Or at least when he’d done what his father wanted.

But maybe that was the key.

Jason had only felt love from his father when he’d obeyed him. His father’s love was never solely about Jason or who he was, but always about Hudson Britwell’s agenda and if Jason adhered to it or not. His father was self-centered, power-hungry.

Jason stood taller.

His mother had opposed Hudson Britwell. She’d joined the Underground and had never left, even after she’d married his father.

Jason would continue her work.

A gentle hand gripped his shoulder. Jason turned to Sam and Olivia, his only friends in Ivory.

“I’m so sorry, Jason,” said Olivia, her bright red hair glowing even brighter in the midday sun. Jason had brought the barn cat from the labor camp into his house, its bright orange coat still reminding him of Olivia. He hadn’t told her he’d named a cat after her. How long could he keep it a secret after finding out she was also an Underground operative? They would work together, no doubt. Then she'd wonder why he had a cat with her same name.

Olivia continued, “Eleanor was a wonderful woman. She helped my family back when my mom was arrested. You probably never knew.”

He hadn’t. Did Jason truly know his own mother? Maybe he’d seen her true character in her last days. Jason clung to those conversations like a Christmas gift.

“Eleanor was a spitfire. Wow, I’m going to miss her leadership.” Sam gripped Jason’s other shoulder, and they exchanged what Jason liked to call an “hermano hug” — a crushing shoulder hug and a chest bump combined with a modified Obsidian handshake. They didn’t add the Havana cheek kisses or Little Asian bows. That would be weird inside Ivory. And would raise Captain Foster’s suspicions.

“We’re here for you, friend,” said Sam, but Jason heard the unspoken “amigo” they’d all adopted after hanging out with Marcos at HQ recently. “I still need a patrol partner, so…”

“I’m coming back,” Jason said, tossing a glance Captain Foster’s way. “There’s nothing more for me out at the camp. And so far, no retaliation or perhaps Foster is sheltering us.”

Which raised the question of where Junior had gone. Junior was the one who’d assigned Jason as director of the QT3 labor camp. Had the National Director of Prisons remained in Queenstown, or had he returned to Martinsburg? Jason hadn’t been to Central yet to see if Junior’s yacht remained at the Central Depot’s docks. Maybe Junior was still around, but in hiding? Jason couldn’t spare any energy for his friend-turned-enemy. He had plenty on his mind with the revelation about the chips and the refugees’ mounting need for food.

Sam and Olivia backed away, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts and his mother's coffin.

“I’ll be back, Mom,” he murmured to the coffin.

Jason worked his way through the other mourners who’d joined their procession through Ivory to the cemetery, shaking hands with Captain Foster and Smitty, his second in charge, before receiving pats on his back and tight hugs from the older women who’d known his mother in school or throughout her life.

“She was the perfect wife.”

“Always so kind, helping others when they fell on hard times. Like when my Mort was ill, she brought us dinner many times.”

“So lively. I thought when she got married that would change, but she never did.” The unspoken sentiment was that Hudson would’ve been responsible for that change.

“Her parents raised her well. They were friends of mine, you know?”

Another loss courtesy of Hudson Britwell. Jason had never met his mother’s parents, his only living grandparents, because Hudson had them arrested not long after he’d married Jason’s mother. Knowing what Jason knew now, Hudson had likely sent his own in-laws to one of the labor camps. They probably hadn’t lasted very long, and it wasn’t like Jason could check now, was it?

“She always knew what you needed and helped you get whatever that was. Sneakers for a growing boy. An extra rations coupon. Your father had power in Ivory, but your mother showed love and care.”

Jason wiped his eyes. His heart felt full, knowing his mother had impacted others. Each person’s words added to the picture of his mother that he’d missed while she’d lived. Jason had focused too much on gaining his father’s approval to notice how well his mother loved and served others. Was he self-centered like his father?

“Excuse me. I need a minute.”

Jason walked back and dropped to his knees at the graveside. He stared at his mother’s coffin, already lowered into place. He had to do better. Jason vowed to pay more attention to people around him, to what his friends needed. What they were going through. Just like his mother had.

For far too long, Jason had focused on trying to please someone who couldn’t be pleased. No more.

And throughout Jason’s striving for his father’s approval, his mother had shown him the love he’d needed. She’d been a rock in Jason’s life, and he hadn’t recognized it until it was almost too late. And now Jason felt uprooted, drifting in the wind, without his mother’s steadiness.

Tears streamed down Jason’s face as he said goodbye to the only person who’d ever seen him for who he was, with all his faults, and still loved him.

5

Rose stared at the physics problem on her screen with her tongue tucked into her cheek. She should know the answer — or at least how to work this — but her mind was completely blank.

She knew without a doubt the equation formed the basis for the sonic repulsion technology used in Queenstown’s walls. There was no other explanation for integrating force and mass into a sound formula.

“Rose, do you have any input?” Staff Sergeant Hernandez’s voice broke the spell.

“Um, uh, not yet, sir. I’m working on it,” she said, diving into her notes. It had to be here somewhere.

Aha. She found it. The equation which bridged the gap in her understanding. So simple. Even a first level student could do it. An experiment they’d done in lower school came to mind — a bowl of water set next to a loudspeaker. The sound waves created physical waves inside the bowl.

Why had she never thought of this in all her years staring at the wall?

Her only excuse was this was no simple bowl of water. And the sound waves coming from the wall lay outside of the human range of hearing. Possibly even outside that of animals' hearing.

Had the regime discovered a new spectrum of sound?

What would happen if she brought simple harmonic motion into calculus?

Her pencil scratched on the paper as equation after equation filled the page.

“Rose?” Staff Sergeant Hernandez’s tone verged on annoyance now.

How long had she been completely immersed in her thoughts? Rose flipped through the pages of her notebook. Three pages, that’s how long.

“Yes, sir? I’m sorry, sir. I got wrapped up in math,” she said, fixing a smile on her face, though it probably looked like they’d caught her stealing candy at market. These equations were definitely not part of their assignment. She fiddled with her hoodie strings, dropping them when Hernandez’s eyes tracked her movement.

“Ok, try to stay on task with us,” he said. “We are continuing with another problem. This time, sound waves through metal molecules.”

Simple harmonic motion. Of course. This was basic physics. Sound waves creating vibrations in various metals, like a tuning fork, but reversed.

Yet, the case study Hernandez called up on the screen was anything but basic. This was no vibrating sheet of aluminum foil. This was physics on a massive scale.

She blinked at the problem, thoughts swirling as she worked it out in her head. On this scale, they could take down a several story metal-framed building with a large enough sound wave. But how would they produce the wave? No, that wasn’t possible. An image of a drum bigger than her tower came to mind, and she dismissed the idea. Ridiculous.

“And that’s a wrap for today,” said Staff Sergeant Hernandez. “I’ve given you more problems like these. Stay on and work together to solve them. And Rose, I expect you to participate. No getting distracted. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. I hear you. And sorry. Sometimes math is so fascinating that my mind wanders,” Rose said.

She wouldn’t tell him she’d stumbled on how the walls in their city repulsed even a two-hundred-pound man. Nor would she share any of it with her colleagues. This math could land her in prison, or worse, get her executed.

His square winked out, and the others worked through the first part of their homework together, Rose contributing what she could without revealing her newfound understanding. Did no one else see what she saw? Didn’t it occur to any of her colleagues they had the means to decode their wall’s technology?

She shook her head, her ponytail swishing across the back of her neck.

“Of course she doesn’t know,” said Dr. Weber, making Rose’s head snap up.

What was he droning on about now?

“I keep telling our leaders Rose Chen doesn’t belong in our program. That she can’t keep up with this level of scholarship and work. See her shaking her head at a basic derivative calculation?”

“What?” said Rose, scolding herself internally. “I must’ve missed something, caught up in thinking about math again. I can do derivatives in my sleep.”

She raced through the derivative calculations on their shared whiteboard, solving the problem with a punch of her electric pen on the screen.

“See?” she said, smirking at Dr. Weber’s square.

“Let’s power through,” another colleague said. “Why don’t we divide and conquer for the remaining four problems. Each of us can solve one and upload our work to the group space.”

Murmurs of agreement shot through their small group, and soon Rose worked on the last assigned problem. She had it solved and uploaded before any of her colleagues had finished theirs.

“Oh,” said Dr. Weber. “When she wants to work, she can get it done. But is it right?”

Rose rolled her eyes as the arrogant jerk checked her work. He didn’t do that to anyone else in their group — only her. She pressed her lips into what others would read as a smile when he affirmed that she’d solved the problem correctly. Would no one check his work? Maybe she should suggest that. Hmm. See how he felt when others questioned his ability.

But no. Everyone turned in their work to the shared group space and waved a goodbye for the day. Rose still had to finish loads of textbook reading to prepare for tomorrow, plus problems assigned from their earlier classes in the day.

The sun had sunk behind her tower, casting a long shadow over both the wall and Havana, when Rose finally turned her laptop off for the day and stretched her arms upward.

“Tough class today? I heard what that guy said to you,” said Chul from his place on her threadbare couch. How he put up with her physics and chemistry instruction day-in and day-out impressed Rose. She’d tutored him in math in upper school, even though he was three years ahead of her. He was a friend and a fellow Underground operative. That didn’t mean she welcomed his presence 24/7/365 in her condo.

Perhaps Chul shouldn’t be listening in on her classes, but Rose didn’t care. It wasn’t like he was a physics or math genius to apply what he heard.

“Yeah, he’s a jerk. But at least I know what to expect from him. Jerky jerk stuff,” said Rose. She rubbed her hands down her face, pressing her palms into her eyes.

She wished she could go blow off steam in the training room at HQ. Hang out with her friends — Harriet, Amy, Marcos, Jason, and the others. Rose wondered how Darcy was doing without Win and felt the gut-punch of watching Win die yet again. She dismissed the worry about her friends, seeing as Rose couldn’t leave her condo to sneak into HQ.

“Let’s get some dinner,” she said, standing. “What’ll it be tonight? Rations special or leftover rations special?” This time Rose’s smile was genuine, a chuckle accompanying her joke.

Chul raised an eyebrow at her and tilted his head toward the listening device in the nearby lamp. “Rations special, it is,” he said.

Wall’s balls. Why did she have to always step in it? Rose wished she knew who listened on the other end of the various listening devices dispersed throughout her condo. She’d stuffed rice paste into the old ones, but with Chul around, she didn’t dare disable the new devices.

Maybe it was Dr. Weber, and he’d heard her call him a jerk. It would serve him right. But what if it was Hernandez? Would how she’d spoken about Dr. Weber disqualify her from the program? Was that how she’d landed in what was basically house arrest?

Maybe.

Even more importantly — did Rose care who heard their conversations?

Actually, no. She didn’t.

Rose stretched her arms above her head, popping her shoulder joints in a cacophony of sound.

Funny that such an innocent physical phenomenon, like sound waves, could wreak such destruction when paired with the right calculus. Now to figure out if that same technology had other uses.

***

The following day, the United Korean scientist droned on about sonic waves and periodic motion. Blah, blah, blah. Rose knew all this. Had mastered it years ago from old textbooks her mentors had provided.

Why did her colleagues take such copious notes? Had their physics classes not covered sound? Ridiculous, though perhaps smart. Maybe the Martin regime didn’t want its scientists to figure out the tech behind the acoustic-enforced walls ringing each city.

Yet, her mentor’s textbook had included entire chapters on sound.

She rested her chin on her hand and stared at the equations on the screen. Her brain jumped back to the formulas she’d worked out while contemplating the wall separating Havana and Little Asia. The solution was right in front of them. Just take this set of equations, add force, bring everything into differential calculus, and bam. There it was. A way to repel any material using sound waves, given the right frequency.

But what was that frequency? It would have to be on the lowest end of the sonic spectrum. But hadn’t scientists already plumbed those depths? Surely someone, somewhere, had. Which made her colleagues naïveté almost incomprehensible. This wasn’t rocket science. Literally.

“Does anyone have questions?” the United Korean lead scientist asked, her glasses perched on the end of her nose and her hair tucked into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck.

Rose hit the “raise hand” button on the virtual classroom dashboard, throwing all caution to the wind. “I’m just speculating, but what would happen if we ran these same equations in differential calculus, paired them with the force equals mass times velocity, and solve for x?”

The United Korean scientist’s eyes widened and her box blinked out. Huh. She’d turned her camera off.

Staff Sergent Hernandez’s square popped up, a bright highlight around it. “Rose, I would suggest you not probe in that direction. Some people in this regime, or even our instructors in United Korea, may accuse you of treason toward Martin’s rule.” The military man wore his usual crisp uniform, the bars of rank emblazoned on his shoulders drawing her eye.

Rose’s forehead crinkled, and she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She lifted her gaze to connect with Chul’s, where he leaned against the front door. He shook his head and sliced a hand across his throat. Rose had definitely stepped in it now.

“I assure you, I was merely curious. The application seemed obvious to me.”

“And this is why we don’t teach this material in College, and why Ms. Chen is unsuitable for this group,” Dr. Weber said, his perpetual frown deepening.

“But isn’t this group intended to probe for possibilities in anything we study?” Rose wouldn’t leave this alone. Why assemble the best and brightest if Martin didn’t want them to advance technology?

And why had Hernandez joined Dr. Weber in shutting her down? What had happened to him encouraging her curiosity and scholarship?

Dr. Weber’s face turned scarlet, and he dug a finger into his shirt collar. “You’re already on house arrest, Ms. Chen. We can tighten that further, if needed.”

Rose leaned forward. So, Weber was responsible for her house arrest. Things clicked into place.

“I could see broader applications for kinetic mechanical energy physics — beyond even what we’re currently doing,” Rose couldn’t stop herself from elaborating. “If we can pass sound waves through the right medium, we could then harness energy from the kinetic mechanical energy produced. The yield in electric power alone would be worth the investment. Or what about a weapon, if that’s more your speed?”

The others looked at her as if they were waiting for her to speak. Dr. Weber — or maybe Staff Sergeant Hernandez, who knew? — had muted her. She punched the speaker button on her dashboard, and it flashed back to mute again. No one had heard her. No one cared about the potential applications. Or maybe someone cared too much.

Rose slammed a fist into her desk and turned her camera off. If her kitchen table wasn’t so heavy, she’d flip it. She paced her living space, eight steps to the front door, eight steps to the window. Back and forth, she lost track of time.

“That was a bad idea,” said Chul, when Rose reached him for what felt like the millionth time. He pressed a finger to the communicator in his right ear canal and grimaced. His already pale face grew paler, and he fiddled with a button on his patrol uniform shirt. “Ugh, Rose. Why did you keep pressing them? Now Dr. Weber is insisting you be arrested for treason.”

That was fast.

Voices droned on from her laptop on the other side of the condo, but Rose ignored them, just like they’d ignored her. Let them stew for a bit.

“Why? Why is it a crime to learn about sound, and then ask about it? What’s the big deal? They’re teaching us how to launch a rocket into space, which violates international treaties. Why is sound worse? Why? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Did you ever think they don’t want regular citizens figuring how to disable the walls?”

“I’m not a regular citizen.”

Chul flinched at Rose’s raised voice.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to take all that out on you. Or imply you aren’t smart. You are. It’s just this program…” She ran her hands through her hair, removing her ponytail holder. One minute, they all praised her brilliance and flexible thinking. The next, they accused her of treason for using that same flexible thinking. A voice which sounded a lot like her mother’s echoed in Rose’s head, pressing Rose to keep asking, to not shy back.

Rose stomped back to the table and flicked her camera back on. She smiled at her group, as if nothing were wrong.

“I disagree, Dr. Weber,” said Hernandez. “She’s curious, that’s all. But we can’t allow further questions in that direction. Class dismissed. Rose please remain online.” He shuffled papers into a stack and set them aside until the others disappeared.

“I will prove to you that she’s a rebel. Everything she does points to traitorous leanings. Why would she question our Supreme Commander’s wisdom?”

“Dr. Weber, I said ‘class dismissed’ and that includes you.” Hernandez’s glare made Rose shrink back against her chair.

Dr. Weber, of course, was the last to go. That guy was on such a power trip. It was a wonder his puffed-up ego fit into his office.

Once they were alone, Hernandez’s glare dropped away. “Rose, please don’t push further into this area. I can only shelter you for so long against Dr. Weber. He is powerful and has Dr. Xiu’s ear. It’s a college dean thing. And for whatever reason, Dr. Weber has decided you’re trouble. Please help me prove to Dr. Xiu and the others that our decision to admit you into the program wasn’t a mistake. And if we discover you’re researching on your own, I can’t be held responsible for the consequences you’ll face. Do you understand?”

“No, actually. I don’t. Why is curiosity about sound physics deserving of treason?”

Hernandez steepled his hands under his chin. “It’s complicated. And I can’t go into the why without explaining far more than we are ready for you to know.”

Rose covered her face in her hands. She hated this. Every. Single. Minute. “Alright.”

She’d hold her questions in class. But she’d investigate on her own. They couldn’t stop her from experimenting with physics equations. Rose had to keep pressing into this now that they’d told her treason lay that way. Whatever they hid must be of the utmost importance. Like nation-changing, world-power-shifting important. And Rose would figure it out if it was the last thing she did.

***

A knock on her condo door after dinner roused Rose from her equations. She’d had a breakthrough in understanding how sound waves could repulse a large mass like a truck, throwing it into the air, but she already knew the physics didn’t work.

At least not for the known sound spectrum. The range needed lay far below the known spectrum — or so it appeared. The Martin regime must have discovered another sonic spectrum below the known range and harnessed said spectrum for the walls. Now if she could only figure out how.

“Let me in,” said a voice she’d recognize anywhere.

Rose frowned at Chul. “What is Dr. Weber doing inside Little Asia?”

Chul shrugged as he opened the door, admitting the Queenstown Dean of College, followed by none other than Chul’s boss, Little Asian Captain Romel. Dr. Weber’s suit was wrinkled, an odd occurrence given his fastidiousness. He crossed the room to her table and jerked her notebook out of her hands. Romel followed, crossing his arms over his chest making his torso appear even more square than usual. Everything about Romel was square — his hair was cut square, his jaw was squared, his torso was a wide square, and his thighs a thick square.

“And this is what I’m talking about,” Dr. Weber said, pointing to her equations and gesturing for Romel to look at her notes. “You’re still trying to work out how the walls work.” He slammed the notebook down.

“You’ve left me no other choice,” Weber said, turning his back on her, and motioning a man with a gray streak down the middle of his jet black, parted hair into the condo. The man spoke with Romel, not looking at her or Chul.

Dr. Weber hadn’t even given her a moment to explain herself. He’d just assumed he knew her motivations.

“I swear this is all curiosity. It’s not malicious. And what’s he here for?” Rose eyed the large bag the Little Asian man carried, wondering what fresh horrors of isolation or surveillance he’d brought.

The man’s gaze lifted to hers before he turned away.

“Really?” Rose said. “This is ridiculous. I have work to do.”

Dr. Weber grabbed her notebook again and ripped out the pages with her sonic-force equations, shoving them into his pocket. “Yes, you have legitimate work. Abandon this curiosity of yours, and I may let you remain in the program.”

He leaned over the table, hovering over Rose. His breath was sour, and she flinched away from him. Romel stood behind Dr. Weber, blocking Chul both with his body and his authority. That the Little Asian patrols captain sided with Dr. Weber shouldn’t shock Rose, but it did. Deeply.

“I have ways of discovering who you’re working for,” said Dr. Weber. “I have allies you know nothing of. Don’t make me go down that road. Because I will.”

Rose dry-swallowed and then jumped when he slapped the table. Weber stood to his full height, which wasn’t much taller than Rose, and stomped away.

“You know what to do,” Dr. Weber said to the technician.

Romel and the technician spoke in low tones, the technician darting glances at Rose. She stared at her empty doorway after Dr. Weber disappeared toward the nearest staircase.

A suspicion glimmered at the back of Rose’s mind, about how perhaps Romel owed Dr. Weber somehow. How else could Weber be inside Little Asia — and demanding additional cameras in her condo? There was something there, but the threads slipped away.

All she wanted was to figure out the wall’s tech. It should be impossible, even with a very low spectrum audio wave. Yet, the wall had blasted her back when she’d gotten too close. Someone had figured this out already. Why was it such a big deal that Rose wanted to know, too?

And was it too late for her to flee to the Underground’s HQ? She felt the walls of her own condo closing in on her and struggled to draw a deep breath in. She had to calm down. Rose hated letting others ruffle her, and Dr. Weber had certainly done so.

Romel headed to her door to speak with the guards positioned there.

“Rose,” said Chul in a low voice from across the dining room table, “evidently he’s installing video cameras in this area only.” He glanced backward toward his boss, whose attention was still fixed on the guards outside her condo.

“Cameras? As in plural?” Rose wondered what other new restrictions they’d be unleashing on her now. Romel didn’t need to talk to the guards outside solely to add a few new cameras inside. Something else brewed.

“Cameras. And what did Dr. Weber say to you just now?”

Rose shrugged. Dr. Weber was a bully, and maybe biased against her for her youth and her smarts. Rose wondered if any of her other colleagues had cameras installed in their homes. Doubtful.

“He says I’m too curious.”

Chul snorted. “Of course, you are.” He stood and put his back to the hallway into her bedroom, as if supervising the technician.

Rose also watched the technician install two cameras in her main room. One camera focused on her workstation at her table, and the other on the couch and seating area. When the technician finished, he left with a nod to Chul. Not a word said to her, or a bow thrown in her direction. Rose had never seen the man in Little Asia before, despite his obvious heritage, and would’ve appreciated an introduction. It was odd.

At least her bedroom lacked cameras. Rose needed some measure of freedom. She’d work out the wall’s sonic tech in there. And her mom’s journals. They might be more important to decode now than she’d realized before.

“Does this mean I can’t have visitors? I miss my friends.”

Chul raised his eyebrows. “Most of your friends won’t want to come here now. But perhaps one or two could.”

“Can you have Amy visit me sometime soon? I don’t want her to get in trouble, but I can’t go on like this. Cut off from everyone, banished inside the four walls of this condo, unable to smell fresh air.”

“Just Amy?”

“Yes, just Amy.” Rose knew what Chul hinted at. She and Amy had been friends forever. If others from the Little Asian Underground came to visit — Grace, for instance — it might raise suspicions. The last thing Rose wanted was to bring trouble to others.

“Perhaps Amy can send my regards to our other friends?”

“You know my partners guarding your door outside will inspect anything entering or leaving this condo, right?”

“Of course,” said Rose.

She needed to think. Amy wouldn’t know the codes yet, so Rose would disguise her communication. Maybe a coded haiku or other form of poetry. Amy could take the note to Harriet at HQ.

Despite Chul’s presence here, Rose doubted the Underground leadership knew the extent of her house arrest. He had barely left her condo in the last week, only to grab fresh changes of his patrol uniform, which he wore non-stop, and to file his reports.

Rose kicked herself for not fleeing when she’d had the chance. For prioritizing the shiny object that was the training program over her own freedom and safety. She hated to admit it, but her mother had been right. This training program and Rose’s work in the Underground were at odds.

But since Rose was stuck here, the least she could do was figure out what Martin was up to — and in doing so, maybe she’d also learn why her mother was in hiding. It was time to figure out the code in her mom’s journals.

6

Dread pooled in Harriet’s belly. She’d finally received the army draft registration summons last night. Martin had announced the upcoming draft more than a month ago, but evidently, organizing such a major initiative took time.

Today Harriet Johnson, the daughter of an executed traitor, would register for Martin’s army. Her family would receive an extra rations portion once she left for training. Plus an egg a week. One measly egg.

What did anyone do with one egg?

And this had nothing at all to do with her participation in freeing the labor camp. That threat hung like a cloud over her head. Any day, she expected patrols to drag her into their offices to be interrogated and tortured for her role. Obsidian patrols could track her every movement through her embedded chip. But that didn’t feel as ominous to Harriet as the physical tail she’d had for weeks.

She finished tying her tennis shoes and threw her backpack over her shoulder. “I’m leaving, Grandmother,” Harriet said, as she passed through the kitchen where her Grandma Thompson stood making breakfast — a simple meal of cornbread topped with homemade crabapple jelly from the tree in their front yard.

Grandma wrapped her arms around Harriet, burying her face in Harriet’s neck. “I wish…”

“You wish I could’ve registered earlier,” said Harriet, nodding toward the listening device tucked underneath their cabinet. “Right? I know you, so patriotic.”

Harriet pressed her mouth to her grandmother’s ear and lowered her voice. “I hate this too. Maybe there’s a way out.”

Grandma Thompson shook her head with a frown, her tight bun loosening with the movement.

Harriet released her grandmother and walked out of the kitchen into their scant backyard. While grass never grew in the blazing sun, the last of their collard greens had flourished in it. They’d spent all weekend cooking and canning the harvest. Young tomato and pepper plants rose in between the remnants of collard greens. Soon they’d have a bounty of vegetables, and would be able to cook the harvest along with any beans they could afford at the market to make vegetable soup, which they’d can for the winter.

Harriet navigated down the narrow bare path and met Alma May in the alleyway behind their house.

“Hi,” her cousin said. “What’s going on? You look like someone stole your morning grits.”

Harriet sighed. “We had cornbread today. And no. No one stole it.”

“Ah, it’s the draft.”

Harriet nodded, threading a hand through her cousin’s elbow. “How are you not freaking out about this?”

“I’m not thrilled, but how can anyone avoid it? Where would they go to escape Martin?” Alma May patted Harriet’s arm and guided them into the main area of Obsidian. “There’s no escaping the Martin regime.”

And Alma May would know.

Harriet waved hello to her neighbors and other acquaintances as she turned toward the Rec Center. The building was closed since the Army had commandeered the Obsidian Rec Center for draft registrations. There would be no hoops or after-school snacks for the kids today. But Harriet’s mother, Ruth, still had to be present.

Of course, Harriet also had the day off. Registering for the draft had become everyone’s top priority. Even shifts at the local factories had made adjustments to allow eighteen-to-thirty-year-olds time to register.

When they reached the line into the rec center, Harriet tipped her head back and groaned. Her appointment window was only fifteen minutes away, but at least forty people stood between her and the front door. The army had brought in an enormous broadcast screen, and it played patriotic songs mixed in with Supreme Commander Martin’s announcements about the draft and his latest speeches.

Harriet tuned out the screen, almost impossible given how loud the volume was.

“Should’ve arrived sooner,” said Xavier, joining her in line. He eyed the registrants ahead of her, his patrol-issued rifle slung across his body and his finger drifting near the trigger.

“Why the tight security?” Harriet nodded toward Xavier’s rifle.

“We’ve had a few less-than-enthusiastic registrants already today,” he said.

“Xavier, what happens if someone doesn’t show up?”

Xavier looked down at her, his polarized sunglasses obscuring his eyes. “We find them and drag them in.”

Harriet crossed her arms over her chest. “What if you can’t find them?”

He dropped his grip on his rifle and spun her to face him. “Don’t. If you go there, they’ll come for your family. Please don’t make me do that.”

She flinched out of his grasp. Harriet’s heart sunk. She knew he referenced HQ outside Queenstown’s walls and buried underground, only accessible via the tunnels.

There was no escape.

“Anyway, you have time. They aren’t calling up recruits, yet. I heard a rumor that it might be months before they start. Something about needing to make room at Victory Military Base.”

Victory City housed Martin’s largest military installment — both army and air force — in a sprawling complex. There had to be other installations — no one could be that stupid to have their entire military in one place — but Victory City was the only one Harriet had learned about in school.

She took a deep breath and exhaled. Alma May squeezed Harriet’s shoulder and leaned in. “It’ll be okay. You’ll figure something out before then. And if not, we can flee. Take everyone and run for the IRT border.”

Harriet turned around to see if anyone had heard Alma May. Such treason would land her cousin in jail — or worse, executed — if patrols got wind. Xavier didn’t count. He was an Underground operative and a friend. Harriet had trained with him for years, and when he’d selected the patrols, it had been on the advice of their Underground leaders in Obsidian. Having eyes and ears inside patrols came in handy if another operative drew the captain’s attention.

“Harriet,” an all-too-familiar voice called, making her pinch her lips together.

Harriet waved goodbye to Xavier, who moved further ahead, and turned to greet her co-worker and fellow operative, Dez, joining the line.

They exchanged the standard Obsidian greeting — a clasping of the forearms, with a slide down to a handclasp ending in a snap.

“You’re registering today, too?” Dez asked.

Uh, Mr. Obvious. Harriet’s brow rose, and she exchanged a look with Alma May. “Why else would I be in this line? Yes, I’m registering.”

“Oh, me too. Got the summons last night while on shift.” Dez knocked his feet one into the other. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I hoped we’d be on shift together again.”

Harriet blew a stray curl out of her face and crossed her arms over her chest. “I guess Dara is changing up how she schedules everyone.”

Harriet shrugged, as if she hadn’t asked Dara to never, ever schedule her with Dez again. The last time had been pure torture. He’d followed Harriet around like a lost puppy. But if Harriet avoided him, he got weirdly aggressive. It was enough to give her whiplash. They’d been friends forever, but Dez couldn’t accept Harriet wasn’t interested in dating him. At this point, she wasn’t even interested in friendship. Harriet was done with Dez.

“Finally,” she said to Alma May as the line ahead moved up five spots. She turned her back on Dez, hoping that with a few people in between them, he’d leave her alone.

“Hey, buddy, watch it,” said a young woman a few people behind her.

“You can’t do that,” came from the man standing right behind Harriet.

A tap on her shoulder brought a groan to Harriet’s lips. Why did Dez keep bothering her?

“What?” Harriet spun to face him, fists propped on her hips. “Why did you hop the line?”

“Because you’re up here all alone.”

Clearly Dez didn’t consider Alma May fit company.

Harriet turned her back on him and inched forward another place. She was that much closer to getting away from Dez. But also that much closer to signing her life away to her mortal enemy — Supreme Commander Martin. Their nation’s dictator had robbed her of everything good and right. She’d spent more than a decade working against him, and the irony of Harriet having to join his Army or face execution wasn’t lost on her.

She had to find a way out of this.

They shuffled forward another spot.

“How are you okay with registering?” Dez’s whisper in her ear launched Harriet several feet into the air and into the person in front of her, sending them both sprawling to the ground in a mass of limbs.

“What’s going on?” Xavier’s booming voice brought Harriet to her feet.

She extended a hand to the woman, and they both dusted off their clothing. The woman glared at Dez and turned her back on them all.

“I asked her a question, but I guess she got startled,” said Dez. “You should’ve seen her jump.” Dez laughed, as if vaulting Harriet into another human being was funny.

“Order in the line,” said Xavier, his finger hovering over the rifle’s trigger. “Or else I’ll have to take you in for questioning.”

Harriet’s stomach fluttered with a mixture of nerves and relief.

Nerves at what questions the recruiters would ask or if she’d have to take a lie detector test. Her mother had trained her to hold her emotions in check. But would Harriet be able to implement that training? It would only be as good as her ability to execute it. To remain calm. To not react, except at the questions you were supposed to.

And then mixed in — relief at Xavier pushing back against Dez, defending her when she honestly couldn’t afford to make a scene. Why ask Harriet how she was okay with this draft, when he had the same stakes as she did? Maybe he had an inside track, given his relationship with the captain? But that made no sense, since the Martin regime hardly answered to a lowly area patrol captain. Even the mighty Captain Johnson couldn’t have that much sway.

“Name?”

Harriet had finally reached the front table, where two Obsidian soldiers in full army regalia — including bars of rank on their shoulders, formal dress cap, and shined shoes — sat with chip scanners and tablets. Her uncle, Obsidian Patrol Captain Johnson, stood behind them with his thick arms crossed over his chest. His stare bored a hole through Harriet’s skull, and she resisted connecting gazes with him.

“Harriet Johnson,” she said, extending her forearm for the female soldier to scan.

The woman tapped on her tablet screen, then motioned for Harriet to enter. Harriet avoided her uncle’s gaze, turning her back on him, Dez, and everyone else in line. If only she didn’t feel like she was entering a pit of doom.

The army had transformed the sometimes chaotic and always loud rec center into an efficient machine. Voices filled the gym as a long line snaked through the space, with registrants at various stations. A weight station, a station with a bed and typical medical clinic instruments, and several more with soldiers seated behind desks and sweating registrants answering questions. And every soldier was Obsidian, as if their presence endorsed the draft for their fellow citizens. Of course, if Martin had sent soldiers from the other areas, then his citizens might realize they were all the same — all prisoners of a dictator.

Then there was the combat ring. Harriet blinked a few times at that one.

“You can’t let them know you’re trained,” said Alma May, as she caught up with Harriet. Her cousin leaned into her side. “No way they’d believe you coincidentally know how to punch or block.”

Harriet darted her gaze around her, making sure no one had heard her cousin’s treasonous statements. The other registrants seemed far more interested in examining each station than in anything her cousin had said.

“Agreed,” said Harriet. “I’m not foolish.”

Harriet swiped a hand across her forehead and down her temple, wiping her wet palm on her jeans. At least someone had fixed the runaway boiler from a few weeks back. The humid June heat was bad enough, let in through the open doors on either end.

A soldier directed Harriet toward the women’s side.

Dez called his goodbye to her, and she waved without looking at him. She knew that was rude, but she was so tired of his attention and his presence everywhere she went. If she didn’t know better, Harriet would accuse Dez of purposely getting an appointment at her time. But how?

Sure, Dez and the Obsidian patrol captain had both been at Dez’s grandpa’s birthday party talking together like old friends, according to a child she’d treated. But did the Obsidian patrol captain have that kind of power? No way. Patrols were a local authority. Martin’s army was in an entirely different class.

She stepped onto the scale, then submitted to the female medic’s poking and prodding, answering questions about her menstrual period, physical activity, and diet. The next station was a review of family history, which Harriet would sooner forget, followed by questions about her current job — why didn’t they already know this? — and her education level. The gut punch of not being able to say “enrolled in College for medicine” hit her all over again. Maybe if she did Martin’s bidding, someone would take notice, and she’d end up in the medical program?

She was finally at the last station — the fighting ring — and all she wanted was to punch something. But that wouldn’t do. Her mother walked past her, lips pressed together. Inside of the ring, a female soldier showed Harriet the basics of self-defense, then commanded Harriet to mimic her. Harriet dropped her elbows and made her arms like noodles, acting like she was afraid of combat. She could almost hear her trainer’s voice in her ear, telling her to protect her ribs or clench her fists tighter. But the female soldier didn’t remark on Harriet’s skill — or lack thereof. She only scribbled a few things on her tablet and encouraged Harriet to practice at home or she’d be behind once she reached basic training. Harriet must’ve fooled her.

When Harriet was finally through the entire process, she exited the rec center, stepping into the radiating early summer heat and wiped sweat from her brow.

Harriet couldn’t push away the sinking thought that Martin now owned her. Her life was shrinking; her dreams drifting further away.

But just like the tunnels provided a way under Queenstown’s walls, she wondered if there was a way out of the draft. Harriet vowed Martin wouldn’t own her for long enough to send her to war.

7

Marcos was probably insane for doing this, but he had needed to see his sister Flavia. Make sure she was okay, and his abusive father hadn’t raised a hand to her now that Marcos was gone for good from their lives.

Or ensure that the boys at escuela had stopped hassling her. Roberto had passed the news along, and Marcos swore he’d seen red. He’d kill them with his bare hands if they hurt Flavia. Even harsh words spoken to his little sister were enough to make Marcos want to pummel the pufferdoons. What a great Ivory word. It fit all too well here.

Never mind that Flavia would come to HQ in a few weeks, after finishing hand-to-hand combat training inside Havana. But a few weeks was far too long to wait.

After liberating the camp and surviving the gun battle, Marcos felt invincible. He’d confronted the regime and apparently had won. Along with the help of a few dozen friends and fellow underground operatives. What was one sneaky trip inside his home area of Havana?

And without an embedded chip to track him, all Marcos had to do was avoid the cameras and patrols. Easy as empanada.

He fingered the key to the underground tunnel exit and marveled once again at the tunnels themselves. The Underground had rediscovered the tunnels after Martin defeated the city’s combined militias and imprisoned everyone left alive inside ethnic-specific areas behind tall concrete block walls. The regime had added barbed wire, glass shards, and the sonic barrier later, in that order, after tiring of citizen’s escape attempts. Too many had died, and if Marcos believed the regime’s reports, none had succeeded. Until him.

Marcos didn’t want to believe those reports.

The tunnels siphoned electricity from Queenstown’s factories above, a clever use of the regime’s investment in the power grid after the electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, which had blanketed the nation in darkness and allowed Martin to seize power over four decades ago.

Marcos climbed the stairs out of the chilly 54-degree tunnel and unlocked the door into the driver depot building’s mechanical room. He moved the concealing panel aside and found the room exactly as Roberto had described. A large boiler stood like a silent sentinel on his illegal foray into his hometown. The furnace fan circulated cooler air through the building.

There was no reason anyone should be inside the Driver Depot at this hour — nearly three am. No one lived here, and since Havana supplied Queenstown with drivers, no one needed to stay the night, unlike in the other areas. The Market and the Distro should also be deserted, cleared hours earlier of residents heading home for the later summer curfew.

Marcos closed and locked the secret tunnel entrance, smiling at how well-concealed it was on this side. If he didn’t know what to look for, he’d miss it. He clicked off his flashlight before heading out into the driver depot’s basement hallway, then up and out of the building through the loading dock.

Marcos navigated through Havana, past the fountain in the village square, the now-silent broadcast screen where Cuban shows played all day, and the silent rec center and into his neighborhood. He was ready to walk right in his front door until he noticed the deeper shadows on his front stoop.

So patrols now guarded his home. Or was this merely a coincidence? Marcos had watched for signs of retaliation for freeing the labor camp, and maybe he’d found it: extra surveillance on his family.

He darted down an alleyway and in between the larger apartment buildings, rather than along the main street sidewalk.

No lights, not even streetlights, catalogued his progress through Havana, until rummaging inside a dumpster brought him to a halt behind a three-story, six-family dwelling. He pressed his back into the all-brick façade and held his breath. The squirrels’ chatter from inside the dumpster made him sink to his haunches.

Marcos released his breath in one long sigh, stood, and sprinted down the last alleyway before his building. The lack of patrol guard on his back door made Marcos’s shoulder blades itch. Had the patrolman gone for a walk around the building? Or was there really not one posted at the back door?

Marcos tiptoed across the backyard, paused and lifted the pot of cilantro, retrieving the spare key before vaulting up the cement stairs to his kitchen door. Havana patrols had confiscated his house key when he was arrested, which made sense. Why would Marcos need a key to a home inside Havana as a labor camp prisoner?

He silently prayed his father had oiled the door hinges and heard a loud squeak when he threw the kitchen door open. Marcos clenched his teeth against the noise.

Of course. Hector, the mighty Havana councilman, had better things to do than oil a hinge. Marcos left the door cracked and tiptoed through the silent house to Flavia’s bedroom.

He knelt over his sleeping little sister, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. She was perfect, her face unmarred. But what about where others couldn’t see? That was his father’s M.O.

He clamped a hand over Flavia’s mouth, and she startled awake, throwing a fist directly at his face.

“Flavia, it’s me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. He dodged another punch and flicked his flashlight on to illuminate his face.

“Marcos,” Flavia said, her voice a whisper in his ear as she flung herself into his arms and he extinguished his light. “I thought you were dead, but then Roberto told me what happened.”

Marcos gripped Flavia’s shoulders and pushed her back a few inches, even though she hadn’t flinched at his smell. Marcos ran a hand over his curls. He needed to find a creek somewhere in the abandoned city and bathe in nature, rather than wait for his weekly turn in the showers at HQ.

“Not dead. But I can’t stay long,” he said.

“You need to get out of here, Marc. If anyone, especially our father, discovered you here, you’d be dead in a minute. And let’s not forget about the patrolmen guarding our home.”

“I know, but I had to see you. Make sure you’re okay. Is he beating you?”

Flavia patted his cheek. “I told you he wouldn’t. You should’ve listened to me, instead of going off and leaving the city like an idiot.”

“What’s done is done,” he said. “But I also wanted to invite you to where I’m staying. Roberto told you about the Underground right?”

Flavia’s smile nearly broke her face in two. “He sure did. I’ve been training here at a friend’s house. But, Marcos, moving around is so difficult now. Patrolmen follow me everywhere. I have to be careful, so I don’t give away the others.”

“Come with me. Leave this place. It’s not worth it.”

A solitary tear tracked down her perfect cheek. Marcos thumbed it away.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “You’re worth it. Now that I know everything, how can I not be part of this? I have school — and futbol — but otherwise, what else am I going to do? I can’t act like nothing’s wrong when the regime threw my brother into some labor camp for leaving the city. We are all prisoners. Comfortable, but prisoners nonetheless.”

Her insight hit him in the chest. She was absolutely right, far more than she even realized. “Have you found any new listening devices?”

Flavia huffed. “Of course we have. And Tío taught me how to disable them, so we’re all good. Patrols only hear muffled conversations. I’m over how Mendoza acts bright and cheerful to our faces, yet tracks everything we do and say.”

“Mendoza? Not Havana patrols?”

“Who else would be responsible for this? You know it was Mendoza, not the captain, who suggested you get sent to the labor camp, right?”

Marcos dropped his hands from his sister’s shoulders and plopped onto the bed. “Mendoza? How did he know about the camps? And why didn’t I put that together? I should’ve, given how Britwell knew, and those two are thick as thieves.”

“I don’t know about council politics, but that’s what Roberto told me,” she said. “Don’t ask me how he knows. He wouldn’t say. Marcos, I’m fine. But you need to leave.”

Pressing his palms into his knees, Marcos stood, still processing Mendoza’s vendetta against him. Marcos had caused trouble galore in school, landing himself in Principal Mendoza’s office far too often. Then Marcos had escaped the city and gotten caught, like an idiot.

But was that reason enough for Mendoza to send him to QT3, or was there something more going on? Something that threatened Flavia? His father acted like an ally to Mendoza, so that couldn’t be why Marcos ended up in QT3, or could it? His brain tumbled, the pieces of the puzzle not quite fitting together like the radio he’d struggled to re-assemble at seven years old.

“Ok, I’ll get out of here,” Marcos said. “But Flavia, be careful. If you’re in danger, please come to HQ. I’ll get Roberto to bring you. It’s time.”

Flavia shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s time, but I’m game. And I’m fine.”

“What about the boys at escuela?”

Flavia waved a hand in the air. “I can handle them. They’re so immature, showing their jealousy of you by picking on me. But I have friends, and no one will harm me.”

Marcos ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it as he examined his little sister. “Alright.” He embraced Flavia, planting a kiss on each cheek and inhaling her warm coconut scent from their shampoo.

“Be safe.” Holding him at arm’s length, Flavia squeezed his shoulders before dropping her hands. “Get out of here before you wake up Papa.”

Marcos bent down and kissed the top of her head, her curls tickling his nose. “You be safe, too.”

When he reached the kitchen and peeked out of the window, relief filled him. The back stoop was empty.

Marcos left his home and backtracked through Havana, hardly noticing the crisp night air or the wan moonlight. Despite his inattention, Marcos easily evaded two sets of patrolmen out on their rounds through Havana’s residential area, conversing as if it were midday. He let himself into the Driver Depot mechanical room and into the tunnels before sitting down against the tunnel’s concrete block wall.

He’d done it. Marcos had proven he could sneak in and out of Havana without getting caught. Part of him wished he hadn’t gone though, as now worries for Flavia’s safety and the reason behind the patrol surveillance filled his brain.

He hated that patrols had targeted his family. But what did Marcos expect? That’s how the Martin regime worked — proximity to a traitor had made Flavia a reasonable suspect for treason. But was this part of Martin’s retaliation for freeing the labor camp? Unlikely. The itch between Marcos’s shoulder blades intensified, and Marcos wondered how long they’d have to wait for the regime’s response.

8

Jason sat in the Central Prison visitors’ area. He had put off seeing his father long enough. It was time Jason faced Hudson Britwell’s accusations, manipulations, and anger. But Jason had wanted to wait for his mother’s autopsy results to return. And boy, was Jason glad he had.

Hudson Britwell had killed his wife.

Or someone had.

Not breast cancer. Not some infection.

Eleanor Britwell, his beloved mother and a lifelong rebel member of the Underground, had been strangled.

And who else but Jason’s father would bother killing her? No one else had a motive.

Hudson Britwell had threatened Jason with retribution if Jason failed as camp director. That meant Hudson had known all about Jason’s working with Marcos and other Underground operatives and had made good on his threat of killing his wife in retribution for Jason’s rebellion.

Which was why Jason now waited at Queenstown’s Central Prison, where Hudson Britwell was being held on suspected murder charges. Ivory patrols Captain Foster had transferred Hudson, along with the other camp guards, to the Central Prison after interrogating them. Foster had thrown half his office contents into the hallway after hearing the stories of prisoner abuse and starvation from the camp guards who had cooperated. The Ivory captain had been upset enough to execute a few of the worst offenders himself. Jason had wanted no one to die, but that decision had become someone else’s as soon as the transport trucks had left QT3.

Jason dry-washed his hands, the motion and touch soothing him. Even so, he bounced his knee up and down, drawing the receptionist’s eye. The man frowned at Jason, then resumed his paperwork.

An intercom buzzed at the receptionist’s desk. “Send him back.”

“The Prison Director will see you now, Mr. Britwell,” the receptionist said, a buzzing noise filling the waiting room.

Jason flinched at being called “Mr. Britwell,” but shook it off. “Thank you,” Jason said, passing the man’s desk.

The hallway’s sterile scent tickled Jason’s nostrils, and he scratched at his nose. He entered the Director’s office.

“Hello, sir,” Jason said, extending a hand for an Ivory handshake.

The Little Asian man eyed Jason’s hand and dipped his head instead.

“Sorry,” said Jason, returning the man’s head dip. The plastic chair cover squeaked with his weight as Jason settled across from the Prison Director’s desk.

“How can I help you, Mr. Britwell?” the director said. The large, dark wooden desk swallowed the man’s slender form.

“I’m here to see my father, Hudson Britwell. He’s an inmate here.”

“Oh, I know your father, but he’s no longer an inmate,” the director said, a smile snaking across his smooth-featured face.

Jason bolted to his feet, his hands clenching at his side.

The man continued, “He spent fifteen minutes tops in a cell before the National Director of Prisons exonerated and released him. Of course, we complied with speed.” The director leaned into the desk, propping his elbows on the edge.

Jason collapsed into the chair, the plastic protesting his weight again. “Why did he get released? The Ivory captain sent him here on murder charges. And my mom’s autopsy just came back. She was murdered. No one else had access to the house.”

“Except you, right?”

All of Jason’s breath left his lungs in a quick exhale. “Me? I was out at QT3. And I would never have murdered my mother. I adored her. But my father threatened—”

“And he claimed you threatened to kill your mother if he didn’t go along with your liberation plan. Mr. Britwell, I think you should leave my office or face murder charges.” The man gave Jason a piece of paper, then leaned back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest, and smiled at Jason. Shivers zipped down Jason’s spine, and his fingers grew cold. How could anyone accuse Jason of harming his mother?

Jason unfolded the note, going still at his father’s messy scrawl.

You’ll regret going your own way. You’ve cost me too much.

Jason crumpled the unsigned note and shoved the looming threat it represented into his pocket as he stood, eyeing the prison director. “This isn’t right, and I will get to the bottom of this. And you, sir, will regret siding with my father.”

Jason stormed out of the director’s office suite and out of the prison, sprinting through the empty streets of the Central area.

Too many unoccupied buildings stood between Jason and the gate into Ivory. He felt eyes on him from all sides, as if spies tracked him. Jason was in far more danger than he’d previously thought. He’d been living at home, mourning his mother, and working his patrol shifts, going back to his former life, only without either of his parents.

But he’d been naïve to think his father was out of the way. That Junior wouldn’t have the last say.

Jason may have won the first salvo, but the verdict was definitely out on the war. He felt the regime’s noose tighten around his neck as his father’s note echoed in Jason’s ears. “You’ve cost me too much.” Hudson Britwell hated losing money or influence. And Jason had taken away both.

Jason pumped his arms to sprint even faster, the pavement hot underneath his shoes. He had little time and now had an entire list of things to do before moving out of his house and looping Foster into his father’s release. Jason refused to hide in the tunnels, to cower before his father any longer. But where could he live? Where would he be safe from not only the regime’s retaliation but also his father’s? And why, when it came down to it, was Jason more afraid of his father than the distant Martin?

And what about the regime tracking his chip? Foster insisted patrols only tracked their area’s citizens, but that couldn’t be right. That no one outside Queenstown tracked them. Or could they?

9

Harriet was late for her training session with Marcos. But who could blame her?

Could the regime honestly not track her underground? She had removed the refugees’ chips and wished she could remove her own. But that was impossible. She still needed her chip for access to rations, entrance into the medical clinic, and a myriad of other things.

This meant she had to accept the fact that patrols — and worse, Captain Johnson — could track her wherever she went. Add to that the patrol tails she’d dodged to get into the tunnels, and Harriet wondered how much longer she could come to HQ before putting her family in jeopardy.

Then, Marcos had dropped a bomb. He insisted she work on her shooting today. The only reason she’d shown up was to spend time with him.

She walked through the training room where pairs of operatives worked on the weight machines or in the sparring ring, and into the firing range. Marcos rifled through the ammunition bins to find matching ammo for the revolvers he’d selected off the packed wall. Harriet couldn’t name most of the weapons arrayed on the wall or inside the locked cabinets. But each were death incarnate.

Harriet’s gaze drifted down Marcos’s arms and torso, a blush rising to her cheeks. This wouldn’t do. Now that she’d noticed Marcos as a guy, she couldn’t unsee him. But it was pointless. Especially when he treated her exactly like he treated his bro friends.

She waved a hand in front of her face and cleared her throat.

“Oh, there you are,” said Marcos. He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. “I wasn’t sure if I’d have to go find you or if you’d show up willingly. Glad to see it’s the latter.”

“What choice did I have again?” Harriet fixed her low bun, smoothing stray hairs away from her face. “If I recall correctly, you threatened to tell Tío, Xavier, my mother, and my grandfather if I didn’t show up. Though I’d love to see you sneak into Obsidian for those last two.”

Marcos laughed. “What you didn’t know was Xavier was ready and willing to talk to your family if you didn’t come in for training. He gets it. You need to know how to use a weapon. One day your life could depend on it.”

“I know, I know. I have my own reasons to not want to do this.” Reasons not even a close and long-time friend like Xavier realized. As smart as her friend was, Xavier also minimized the internal fear patrols following her everywhere produced.

“Reasons that you won’t share. I know. You’ve told me.” Marcos handed her a patrols-issued revolver and a box of rubber bullets. “But we need to work through this. I’m confident we can do this together.”

“Did Sam tell you anything?”

“Sam? No. Why should he?”

Harriet bit her lip. If she didn’t tell on herself, Marcos would ask Sam, and she wouldn’t be there to explain. She squared her shoulders. “Last time I tried to do this, I ran out on him. This is… it’s hard for me to be in here. Please don’t be disappointed, Marcos.”

Sam had taken her flight in stride, as if he’d struggled himself — or seen someone he loved struggle with being around guns. But who living under this regime’s thumb hadn’t? At least Rose had gotten Harriet to hold a revolver without Harriet wanting to flee in terror.

“Oh, you won’t run this time,” Marcos said with a big grin which reminded her of a mischievous kid’s. “I brought incentive.”

“Incentive?” Harriet followed Marcos into the range’s middle stall and Marcos hit the button to bring the empty target closer.

Marcos wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Yes, incentive. Something you’ll love, but that I can’t share until you finish up here.”

She eyed him, propping her fists on her hips. “This better be good.”

He attached a fresh bullseye with a black outer ring, red middle, and yellow inner circle, then sent the target back down the lane. “Oh, it is. I promise.”

Incentive meant she’d have to stick it out. Curiosity burned away her fears. What could be incentive enough to stay, despite being the most uncomfortable she could imagine?

Marcos gripped her shoulders, turning her to face the target. A shiver zipped down her spine, and she breathed through the contact. Why couldn’t she be attracted to some guy in Obsidian? This was so inconvenient.

“Have you seen Rose lately?” Marcos positioned himself next to her in the lane, the protective headphones for both of them in his hand.

“I haven’t and I’m worried. Rose never stays away this long. She’s snuck out of her house arrest before and supposedly has at least one Underground operative on protective duty now. She should’ve never gone back home.” Harriet bit her bottom lip and set the revolver on the shelf in front of her.

“I wonder if Tío knows anything more. I’ll ask.”

They both donned the headphones, the silence surrounding Harriet in a brief cushion of peace.

She quickly loaded the revolver as Sam had taught her, setting the box of rubber bullets into the low cubby in the lane. As she prepared to shoot, Marcos wrapped his arms around her, his hands gripping hers and helping her aim. The contact made her shiver, and she took another deep breath to calm her racing pulse. Could he feel how fast her heart beat? Maybe he thought it was nerves at holding a revolver?

She squeezed the trigger and knew the shot would go wide — she’d closed her eyes. But at least she’d gotten a shot off. That was progress.

Marcos lifted a hand and aimed two fingers at his eyes and then at hers. She waggled her head and grimaced. Of course he’d notice. Harriet breathed deeply, in and out. She could do this. No big deal, right?

Harriet lifted the revolver and sighted down its barrel, Marcos only using one hand this time to steady her grip. She pulled off shot after shot until the chamber was empty.

Marcos removed his headphones. “I think you hit it at least once,” he said as he brought the target closer. He grinned at her. “Yep, twice. Once in the red and once outside the circles. Try again.”

Harriet closed her eyes and deep-breathed, telling her heart rate to calm. It wasn’t like she was firing real bullets. And the target was paper. She told herself to get a grip.

Harriet re-loaded and emptied the revolver several more times. Harriet’s best shots had hit the red area. Nothing in the yellow center.

“You did great!” Marcos said, wrapping her into a Havana embrace and swinging her around. “I’m so proud of you for sticking around.”

Harriet moved her shoulders in slow circles and stretched her arms over her head. His reaction seemed a little over the top to Harriet, but it tracked with his exuberant personality. She dipped her head at his praise and put away the revolver and extra ammo.

“I had to register for the draft,” she said, turning to face Marcos as he cleaned up the firing range aisle they’d used.

His wide-eyed gaze whipped to hers. “Oh no. We’ve got to find a way to stop whatever Martin is planning. I remember sitting in Martin’s big draft announcement thinking he was up to something. Then I got caught outside the city, and well, you know the rest.” He rubbed a hand across his chin.

Marcos was no longer in danger of the draft — unless he got caught. Then he’d have bigger issues. Probably death. She didn’t know which was worse — draft or death.

Perhaps being forced to fight for Martin’s agenda, which was what Harriet faced.

“I think we need Rose. There’s something about her training program launching at the same time as the draft that makes me wonder,” Marcos continued. “They’ve got to be connected. And making everyone between eighteen and thirty register seems like way too many people. Unless her program aims at something even bigger?”

“That’s why both Tío and Sophie didn’t want her doing the program, even before we all knew about the draft. I think they might be right, though their tactics weren’t great.” Harriet pointed at Marcos. “Don’t you ever tell Rose I agreed with her mom, though. She’d never talk to me again.”

“What’s up with that?”

“Their history isn’t great, but Rose should tell you herself,” said Harriet. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“Speaking of drama and history — anything new with Dez after he showed up here without permission?”

Harriet stalled for time by examining her nails. She needed to trim them again.

“Harriet?”

“Oh, not really.” Harriet dropped her hands to her sides.

“Whoa, your mouth is saying one thing, but your body language is practically yelling another. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Harriet buried her face in her hands. “Patrols follow me everywhere. It’s a miracle I can dodge them long enough to get to HQ. Dez has to be connected, but I can’t pin it on him, even though he’s buddies with the patrol captain. And then there’s the way he watches me.” She shivered. “It’s creepy.”

“Do we need to take him out? Have a conversation? Threaten him?” Marcos leaned in, gripping Harriet’s shoulder tightly.

“I’ve got it,” Harriet said, shrugging away, but not before a zing sped down her shoulder and into her arm. “Alma May thinks he likes me, but that’s honestly weird. He’s like my cousin. And I’ve told him as much. Yet, he’s still always around.”

“I’d love to meet Alma May,” Marcos said. “You talk about her all the time, and she sounds like an amazing friend.”

Harriet cursed herself for a fool and left the firing range, Marcos’s incentive long forgotten. “Not gonna happen.”

She approached Jason and Grace, locked in conversation at the shoulder press machine. They didn’t even notice Harriet and Marcos joining them.

“What’s going on?” Harriet leaned against the press bar, hooking one ankle over the other.

Marcos hovered nearby, his feet shoulder-width apart and his arms folded over his chest. His thundercloud expression said their conversation was far from over. Harriet felt her face flame and diverted her gaze.

“Rose is locked in her condo,” said Grace. “And under video surveillance. It’s bad. That Dr. Weber guy bullied the Little Asian patrols captain to get the cameras installed, according to Chul.”

Harriet’s stomach twisted at the thought of Rose on house arrest, her every move documented. Did she have any privacy? Did some patrol jerk watch her sleeping — or worse, in the bathroom? Harriet shuddered.

“Truly? That’s odd,” said Jason. “House arrest is one thing, but cameras? That’s unusual.”

“Where are the cameras?” Harriet asked.

“In her living area — or so the note from Chul said.” Grace leaned against the weight-racking mechanism of the shoulder press.

“Video surveillance, huh?” Marcos propped his hands on his hips and stared into the main training room area. “Maybe I could hack into it.”

“What good would that do?” Jason leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands locked together. “We’d be able to see her. That doesn’t get her out of there.” He sat up straight and ran his hands through his hair again, making it stand on end. Harriet wondered if Jason realized how much he worried about Rose. And if he’d realized what Harriet could plainly see — Jason had feelings for their friend.

“I’m worried. If Dr. Weber is targeting Rose, then my dad has to be behind it — I think you’re onto something, Harriet. This smells like my father’s scheme,” Jason continued. “Which means it’s really Junior behind it. What has she touched on, gotten too close to?” He vaulted to his feet, and Harriet watched him pace back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

“Whoa, hold on,” said Marcos. “You jumped all the way to Junior? Mind connecting all that for the class?”

Jason sat on the bench press again, his shoulders hunched. “Junior ordered my dad’s release from Central Prison. And we know my dad has all kinds of power in our city. Who knows how many people he has in his back pocket? Unfortunately, I have no clue where he went once he left Central.” Jason ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

“Released? I’m so sorry, Jason,” said Harriet, her heart melting for her friend. He was still grieving his mother’s death and this added a bigger burden to his shoulders. “Could your dad have some power over Dr. Weber? Like maybe your dad is the one behind the cameras and house arrest and not Weber.”

Harriet couldn’t help but see the threads of connection between the Ivory dean of college and the former senior city councilman from Ivory.

“You could be onto something, Harriet,” said Grace. “Chul said our patrol captain accompanied Dr. Weber to Rose’s condo, but didn’t hang out very long. I could see Britwell calling in a favor, with Dr. Weber as the beneficiary.”

Jason darted to his feet again and paced. “How could Hudson have any sway over the Little Asian captain? Then again, my father saw Rose the night we liberated QT3. If he can’t get to me, maybe he’s figured he’ll get to her, that she must mean something to me, since we were together.”

“You know as well as I do that your father wields great power all over the city with his voting bloc,” said Marcos. “I could totally see him being behind this. But perhaps Britwell now owes Junior a favor or two after Junior released him from prison?”

Of course, Hudson Britwell was behind this. Harriet didn’t understand why the others were debating it. She stepped into Jason’s path. “Can we send some Little Asian operatives to get her out?”

Jason shook his head. “I don’t think that would work. And I definitely can’t do it. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, like someone’s watching me, monitoring my movements. Even when I’m on patrol. It’s not rational. I know I’m theoretically safe, but if my father can influence things in Little Asia, who else does he have in his back pocket? Still, I refuse to stop my patrol shifts.”

“So about that hacking,” said Marcos, his arms folded across his chest, making his biceps pop. Harriet averted her eyes, but not before she felt the blush spread across her cheeks. “I’m being serious. I would access the feeds, then replace the camera input with loops of video. Short loops. Make it look like nothing is happening. Then we could bust in and get her out.”

“That’s nuts,” said Grace. “And maybe suicide, Marcos.”

“No way,” Harriet said, agreeing with Grace. “Wouldn’t you have to get inside her tower to find the network feed? And Jason just said we can’t get her out.”

“You can’t leave the depot,” said Grace. “If you showed your face in my area, you’re back in prison again, Marcos. Or worse. And those patrolmen on her door have guns — and they’re not afraid to use them. You might hack the feeds, but getting Rose out without sending the entire Little Asian patrols down on you? Nope. There has to be another way.”

“I don’t see one,” said Jason. “If Marcos hacks the feed, and maybe I come in with summons from city council, then we don’t have to bust her out. We can have Andrew Stewart call an investigation into my mom’s death.”

“But why would that need Rose’s input?” Harriet shook her head. “No. We need another idea.”

“I can hack those feeds,” said Marcos. “I know it. I’ve done it before. In our computer course we learned about networks, and just for fun I hacked into the depot’s system. It’s only a few additional steps. I’d need a decent stretch of time, but I’d have that on an overnight driver route into Little Asia. We get those all the time. Tío could bring me in, hidden in the truck cargo hold. If I can convince him, that is.”

“I don’t like it,” said Harriet. “There’s like fifty ways this can fail — or with you both in a holding cell or worse. This is a terrible plan.”

Besides, Rose could handle herself. The memory of Marcos’s last encounter with patrols outside the Obsidian wall had Harriet shivering and hugging herself.

“I agree with Harriet,” said Grace. “The patrolmen stationed on her door are heavily armed. Even if we got the video loop thing to work, how would we bust her out without triggering a manhunt? And don’t suggest a summons to a death investigation for another area. No one would believe that.”

Marcos shrugged. “Causing a firestorm inside Little Asia wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. We’d have to high tail it into the Underground. But Rose would be safe.”

“And spitting mad at all of you,” said Harriet, throwing her arms in the air. “Don’t you see it? She has this do-it-herself streak. Aside from the slim chance this has of working at all. You’ll get yourselves killed — or worse, caught.”

“But staying in her condo, letting them watch her, and whatever else they’re doing, is also a really bad idea that won’t end well,” said Jason, his face flushing.

“I wish Sophie or Rich were here,” said Grace, her fingernails leaving a bright red line on her bare clavicle. “They’d know what to do. They’ve both escaped Britwell’s clutches.”

And they had — Rich in Ivory and Sophie from Little Asia. Harriet still didn’t understand how Sophie Chen had landed on Britwell’s radar, but that’s why Rose’s mom had gone into hiding at HQ. Harriet wished Rose’s mom had shared more detail, though, before she’d left the city for wherever she was. Because now, Harriet felt like they were all shadow-boxing Britwell.

“I’m not sure how that would help,” said Jason. “Their situations differed totally from Rose’s. Neither were under house arrest with a patrolman inside their living quarters and more outside. We just need to think harder for a legitimate reason for Rose to go to the CAB.” He paced again and his movement made Harriet twist her hands in her shirt, grabbing fistfuls of fabric. The motion did nothing to calm her racing thoughts, though. Still, she continued. Twisting, grabbing fabric, releasing.

“I’m going to do it,” said Marcos.

“Argh, no,” said Harriet, clutching her ears now. “Are you kidding me? Did you not listen to anything Grace or I said?”

“I listened,” said Marcos, grinning at her. “But I think you’re wrong. Maybe pretending Rose is needed for a death investigation isn’t the right move, but we’ll think of something. Let me get the video feed hack in place and the loops ready to implement. Then we can come up with an extraction plan.”

Harriet fell to her knees and dropped her head into her hands.

Grace argued with the guys, but Harriet knew she wouldn’t budge them. Stubborn men.

She rose to her feet. “There’s nothing we can do to stop you?”

“Nah, sorry this freaks you out Hari, but we have to do something,” said Marcos. “We can’t just leave Rose defenseless, locked inside her own home.”

“And I’ll work on a council summons with Andrew Stewart,” said Jason. “And maybe Sam. We’re on patrol together tomorrow.”

Grace threw her hands into the air. “You’re going to get yourselves arrested. But you’re grown men. If you want to do this, I can’t stop you.” With a backward glance first at Harriet, then at Marcos, which made Harriet’s face turn red, Grace left the training room.

“Keep me updated?” Harriet’s eyes remained on Marcos, whose jaw ticked with tension, until he nodded. She exhaled loudly. “We just got you freed from one prison, Marcos. Please don’t land yourself in another. And please, abandon the plan if it puts Rose at risk.”

“I’ll do my best,” Marcos said. He lifted his gaze from the floor and grinned at them both. “Besides, things have been boring around here lately. Time to spice up this exile life.”

Jason and Marcos exchanged a Havana bro hug, while Harriet threw her head back with a groan. She wanted to clobber Marcos for his blatant disregard for his own safety, while also cheering on his courage, and throwing her arms around him to stop him from doing anything stupid. What an utter mess.

10

The truck rumbled to a stop at what Marcos presumed was the Little Asian depot, and he tucked himself deeper behind the pallets of canned goods, eggs, and rations bars. After a long argument and pleading on Marcos’s part, Tío had finally relented and snuck Marcos into the truck’s empty cargo hold inside Havana’s depot.

Marcos could’ve used the tunnels to get into Little Asia, but how could he disguise himself in broad daylight? Even in the dark, Marcos’s height would’ve stuck out on the Little Asian streets.

Marcos scratched the back of his neck. He’d finally gotten a hot shower at the Havana driver depot and couldn’t believe how much better he felt. It had been almost a week since his last one. He’d recoiled at his own smell. It had been that bad. Thankfully, no one, including his sister, seemed to notice.

The truck’s rear door rolled up with a clang, and Marcos twitched, wanting to jump. A familiar whistle filled the space, and Marcos relaxed his shoulders back against the metal truck exterior. Tío’s whistle transformed into the safe code, letting Marcos know they were alone on the dock.

How were there no Little Asian patrol officers stationed on the dock to monitor them? Marcos shook his head and ducked out of his hiding place, grabbing the pallet dolly as Tío lowered the ramp. Marcos positioned the dolly under the first pallet, walked it down the ramp and into the depot.

Good thing he’d been a driver and knew where to go without Tío’s direction. Every depot in the city had the same layout. Market on one side, the rations depot on the other, with a warehouse and the driver’s quarters to the back end of the building. Whistling his own tune, Marcos nodded to Tío as they passed one another on his way back out to retrieve another pallet. Marcos pushed his pallet of mixed vegetable cans into the warehouse, lining it up with its neighboring canned carrots before returning to the truck. They worked together to empty the truck, Tío securing the rolling door and locking the vehicle.

“So far so good,” Marcos said, his voice pitched low for only Tío to hear.

Tío frowned at him, then glanced up at the cameras. Anyone monitoring the location could recognize Marcos and send patrols down upon them. But they had to take the risk.

Marcos wiped sweat from his brow and led the way to the Driver Depot portion of the building. Once he reached the bunk room, Marcos released his pent-up breath.

“Time to get to work,” Marcos said. He plopped into the chair and woke the slumbering desktop computer. Typically, they used this networked station to log their shipments. Tío would handle that after Marcos hacked into the regime’s network and found the feed for the cameras inside Rose’s condo.

His fingers flew across the keyboard. Marcos inserted a USB stick into the drive and tapped his fingers. The program he’d developed and left with his friend, Roberto, for safekeeping many weeks ago loaded onto the drive, doing the heavy lifting of hacking into the administrator’s login.

The desktop dinged, and Marcos pumped his fist. He was in.

Finding the station’s IP address and navigating into the network were easy. As he sped through the Little Asian network, Marcos’s jaw hung open.

When he’d done this in Havana, he’d only seen a few dozen stations connected to the Havana network. Of course, the rec center, administrative offices, depot, and market would all have their own stations, but why were there so many others on the Little Asian networks?

He hacked into one after another, soon realizing that the Little Asian patrols hosted the area’s citizen-monitoring camera system on the network, unlike the Havana area patrols, which did so on their own private network. Marcos frowned. What was that about?

He opened one after another, bouncing between live views on Main Street to the inside of the soap factory to the camera monitoring the gate into Havana. When he pulled up what felt like the hundredth camera feed, he felt the blood drain from his face. This was someone’s living room. But not Rose’s.

Tío leaned over Marcos’s shoulder and growled. “That’s Mr. Ling’s home. I’ve been there before. Why are they monitoring one of our leaders?”

Why indeed? Who had alerted Little Asian patrols?

“I need to let him know he’s being watched if he doesn’t know already,” said Tío.

“How could he not notice the camera in the corner of his living room?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” said Tío. “Nevertheless, just in case he doesn’t know. We’ll get a message to him. Keep going.”

Marcos scrolled through living room after living room, kitchen after kitchen. Different couches or tables, and sometimes a three-paneled screen or an extra chair, took up space in the living area, but each time, Tío shook his head. Not Rose’s. That Little Asian patrols monitored so many of their own citizens shouldn’t shock Marcos, yet he couldn’t stop the chills descending up and down his spine.

“Come on, where are you?” Marcos mumbled into the computer screen. He had reached the end of the list, but no Rose. “How else would they monitor her? She’s not on the patrols’ feed or on the general Little Asian network. Could the camera feed be going outside the area?”

Tío ruffled a hand through his curly hair, which was longer on top than on the sides. “But why when they have the personnel here? That doesn’t make sense. We’re missing crucial information.”

“Maybe her program administrator monitors her?” Rose’s high-level program could absolutely prompt video monitoring, especially given her history of escaping house arrest.

Marcos sat back in the chair and tapped a finger on his thigh. Thoughts flew through his head. “We have to figure this out tonight.”

“We need to get onto her roof,” said Tío. “Access the video feeds at the source.”

Marcos examined Tío’s face and saw lines on Tío’s forehead, his usual exuberance tamped down with a frown. Why was Tío so worried about this? The regime monitored many people, way more than Marcos had realized. Tío hadn’t reacted this way at Ling being monitored, and Ling was a leader of the Underground.

“Can we get there without being detected? Chul’s note said her tower is crawling with patrolmen.”

“We have to try. We need to hack into that feed and get her out of there without whoever is monitoring her knowing. And we only have one shot.”

Marcos slapped his hand down on the desk. If only he were more skilled and could go upstream of the Little Asian network, he could access the network for the entire city. His class hadn’t even covered what he’d done tonight, let alone high-level network infiltration. Tinkering around had accidentally landed Marcos into the Havana network. Except he’d been trying just to see what would happen. It was like no one had known he’d been inside. A good sign for any future hacking attempts.

Marcos navigated back up to the parent network for Little Asia and ran a security program of his own design. This should detect if a secure port lay hidden inside the visible network. The program returned a zero hidden ports value, and Marcos ran a hand down his cheek, pulling his skin and stretching his jaw. That made no sense. If the cameras in Rose’s condo weren’t among those visible, then it should pop up as a hidden value. But, no.

Tío gripped Marcos’s shoulder. “Let’s head up to the tower roof. You got a hoodie?”

Marcos had borrowed a Havana driver uniform — black pants with a gray collared long-sleeved shirt. No hats, no hoodies allowed. Probably so they couldn’t sneak around the areas they drove to.

But Marcos was no regular driver tonight. Of course, he’d brought a black hoodie and a pair of jeans in his backpack. He and Tío quickly changed.

Marcos logged out of the network and ejected his USB stick, tucking it into his jeans pocket and throwing his backpack over his shoulder.

“Let’s go. Time’s running out,” said Tío.

Marcos followed Tío out of the driver depot and down the loading dock stairs. He kept his head tucked to his chest and hunched his shoulders to appear shorter as they passed under the ubiquitous cameras. Marcos really hoped whoever was on camera duty had fallen asleep by now.

Tío jogged to a nearby high-rise condo building, staying in the building’s shadows until he reached an emergency exit in the rear.

“I hope they haven’t armed this since the last time I was here,” said Tío. “Grace was supposed to make sure.”

Tío had been inside a tower in Little Asia? That must be how he knew what Rose’s condo looked like. Marcos had definitely underestimated Tío’s prowess. Marcos bet that not even Roberto had been inside one of the Little Asian towers.

Tío unlocked the exit door, and Marcos held his breath.

The men were greeted with silence as Tío opened the door.

Tío wiggled his eyebrows at Marcos, who released his pent-up breath. Why wasn’t that door armed? If he were in charge and knew of Rose’s skill at escaping her minders, Marcos would have made sure that the exit was armed. Perhaps there was something bigger at play here? Or whoever kept Rose under lock and key didn’t know about the emergency exits? That seemed unlikely.

Marcos hoped that Grace had disabled the exit door alarms ahead of them and this wasn't some plan to entrap them.

They darted inside, Marcos closing the door behind them. Unease twisted his gut into knots.

Tío gestured to the camera above them. Marcos hunched over and followed him to the stairwell. They sprinted up the stairs in long strides. Marcos felt time running out, as if at any moment patrols would cut off their ascent. As they passed the fifteenth floor where Rose lived, Tío peeked through the small window in the metal door.

“Patrolman in place outside her condo,” Tío whispered.

“As expected,” Marcos said, continuing past Tío and up the remaining flights to the roof.

Once there, Tío once again unlocked the access door. How Tío had gotten a copy of all these keys was beyond Marcos.

When they walked into the scathing June midnight air, Marcos took a deep breath and stood tall once again. They’d made it.

He sprinted to the tall antenna hooked into a square metal box in the middle of the tower roof and knelt beside it with a groan. The four-foot square box was seamless, no lock to pick or cover to pry off. Just one solid box with the antenna exiting the top.

“Bonders,” Marcos cursed. He’d adopted the Ivory curse word after hearing Jason and Sam use it way too often. Tío raised a single eyebrow at him and cocked his head.

“What was that for?”

Marcos slapped the gravel roof, his palm stinging at the contact. “There’s no way to hack into this, because there’s no way to open it.”

They knelt beside the box, tugging on it and on the antenna, feeling for a seam or joining but without success.

“Those hocicos de cerdos have hack-proofed this,” Marcos said. “I have no idea how to get into it. We definitely didn’t cover this in my high school computer classes. Not even my illegal experimentation can get me into this fortress.”

Marcos rubbed his eyes and stared at the box that stood between Rose and her freedom.

“This isn’t working. We can’t hack into her video feeds from the depot, can’t get into it at the source, which I’m thinking this has to be it, and can’t find the parent network for Little Asia to see if the feed might be there,” said Marcos.

He growled. Failure stung, and that’s what this was. Marcos had failed. Never mind, it was clear Little Asian patrols weren’t monitoring Rose, despite the patrolmen from her area stationed inside her condo and at her door. He’d seen nothing like this transmission unit — that’s what the square metal box had to be — in his life.

Tío planted his hands on his knees and stood, his joints popping. “We need to get out of here before they catch us outside the depot.”

“Let’s go. If I don’t make it into the tunnels, I’ll be stuck here,” said Marcos. He had a solid three-block walk through Little Asia after curfew to make it into the other Little Asian tunnel entrance.

Tío led the way off the roof, locking the door behind them. Every time their shoes squeaked on the tiled stairs, Marcos cringed. He was trying to descend without twisting his feet, but it was nearly impossible, especially on the landings. They’d reached the third level when a door slammed open high above them.

“Faster,” Tío said, using their messenger hand signal thrown over his shoulder.

Marcos kept up with Tío’s steps, their footfalls growing only moderately louder. At least one body thundered down the stairs above them.

“In pursuit of curfew violator, down the rear stairs,” the voice above shouted.

Tío threw open the emergency exit door and gestured for Marcos to run.

Marcos sprinted from behind the tower and across a side street. He dove behind the dumpster standing in the alleyway next to Tower Three and froze. Patrol units sprinted down the Main Street ahead of him, turning onto the side street he’d just vacated.

He hoped Tío made it back to the Depot but couldn’t do anything about it if he hadn’t. Marcos counted to one thousand slowly, not daring to move even one muscle. All of this sneaking into Little Asia and into Rose’s condo tower, then sprinting away and dodging patrols was for nothing. She’d be trapped inside her condo forever.

What bothered him even more, though, was he did not know who monitored her. It could be Dr. Weber, but perhaps not. It must be someone far more powerful, considering the sophistication of that transmission box. And that fact, more than the risk he took with his own life, caused the pit in Marcos’s stomach to deepen.

Once the side street was silent again, Marcos crept out of his hiding place and hugged the building’s shadows to the next street. He ran across the empty road, rolling through his feet so his steps didn’t echo through the night. When he reached the tunnel access point, Marcos unlocked the exit door and breathed out a sigh at the silence that greeted him.

Marcos tiptoed through the hallways to the mechanical room, his movements efficient as he accessed the underground entrance and closed up everything behind him. The tunnel’s cool air hit his face, and Marcos leaned onto the railing, nearly collapsing.

He’d made it back.

Despite all the risks of sneaking into Little Asia and hacking into their network, everything had gone right — except their primary goal. And Marcos losing Tío. Oh, well. Tío could take care of himself.

Marcos’s failure stared him in the face and he walked back to HQ with his shoulders collapsed inward and his feet dragging. They needed another idea for breaking Rose out of the prison of her condo.

11

Dr. Weber muted Rose’s audio yet again, and Rose pounded her kitchen table in frustration. She was trying. But he blocked her participation in their virtual sessions at every turn.

All day.

Despite Staff Sergeant Hernandez’s orders.

Despite her other colleagues asking for her contribution.

She’d even been mid-sentence this time. Of course, she’d been poking at the sonic tech in the wall. Their curriculum was centered on sound waves, and Rose couldn’t help but wonder if this was the core of what their group needed to learn. But if that was the case, why didn’t Dr. Weber encourage her attempts to probe and poke at the wall tech?

The only plausible explanation was he wanted to be the one leading their group and dramatically unveiling his knowledge for the others. Or he knew where she was headed with her questions and didn’t want her to get the credit.

Ugh. He was awful. Why couldn’t she be in one of the other groups?

She hit the speaker button once again. Their time on this problem was almost up, and they would break for dinner soon.

“So like I was saying before Dr. Weber so rudely turned off my microphone,” said Rose. “I believe it’s possible to amplify a force using far low-range sound waves. It would look something like this.”

Rose wrote her first equation on their white board, ready to demonstrate when her meeting square disappeared.

“Arhhhh,” she screamed.

“Is he at it again?” said Chul. His constant presence had become background noise in her life, and she jumped at his voice.

“Weber actually kicked me out of the meeting,” she said. “Or maybe stopped the meeting altogether. Hernandez had turned control over to him, and we were close to our dinner break, but definitely not done yet. Should I try to rejoin the meeting? That seems pointless. This is so frustrating.”

Why did she want to prove to her colleagues what was so obvious to Rose? Maybe she should give up and leave them on their own, escape her minders, and hide at HQ. The internal dread she felt at giving up in the face of opposition had Rose straightening her spine and firming her shoulders. She refused to give up. Ever.

A knock on her condo door brought an eyebrow raise to both their faces. Chul stood, then hesitated.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“No,” Rose said. “Are you?”

“No,” he said. “I should’ve received a comm from the guard posted in the lobby or at the very least from Eric posted outside.”

Chul crossed her living room to the door, while Rose closed up her laptop and put away her notes. She couldn’t risk anyone seeing what they worked on, despite having Chul in her space most days. He didn’t understand the complex physics her class worked on, but he also was very good at keeping secrets.

Chul opened the door to a stout Little Asian patrol officer, his gun already drawn out of its holster.

“Whoa,” said Chul, hands raised. “What’s with the armed entry?”

“I have my orders,” the man said, his gravel-filled voice making the hair on Rose’s arms stand on end. She examined his face, vaguely recognizing him. Too bad her crowded brain couldn’t place how she knew him, and he didn’t introduce himself.

“Stand down.”

Rose bet the man’s arms were as thick as her thighs. Then there was his neck — corded with muscle and way too thick. She shrunk back into her chair.

“Who are you? What orders? Why didn’t anyone let me know?” Chul blocked the man from entering her condo, but the patrol officer shoved Chul into the wall, his forearm at Chul’s throat. His partner entered her condo and neatly disarmed Chul, pocketing first Chul’s patrol-issued revolver, then his comm.

“I said to stand down,” the first man said. “It doesn’t matter who I am. If you get in the way, I’ll be forced to take you in as her accomplice.” If a person could growl, this man had just done so.

Rose looked around for a way to escape. But she already knew. There was no escape. She’d missed her window. A sinking feeling hit her stomach.

“Accomplice to what?”

Rose walked out from behind the table, crossing her arms over her chest. She’d done nothing wrong, and if Dr. Weber were accusing her of something, he should be man enough to do it himself. Not send some patrols toady.

“To treason,” the man said. “Rose Chen, you’re under arrest for treason against the Martin regime.”

“What?” Rose dropped her arms, staring at him.

She peered around the patrol officer and noticed several others in their distinctive all-black uniforms with steel-tipped boots, all toting patrol-issued rifles or revolvers. Several even had theirs drawn and ready, as if she would fight arrest.

Well, she’d considered it. Only now, resistance was futile. She and Chul were outnumbered and outgunned.

Her shoulders slumped, and she hung her head to her chest. Arrest. It was over. The program. Her rebellion in the Underground. Her friendships with Harriet, Marcos, and Jason. She’d just gotten started. And it was over. Would anyone miss her?

Chul blocked the stout man’s progress toward Rose. “No, I meant what I asked,” Chul said. “Who are you? I don’t know you, and I don’t see our guard posted outside. I won’t release Rose to you unless you give me your name.”

“Not my problem,” the man said. “Check with your captain. He knows all about this. In fact, he was giddy for the mighty Sophie Chen and her daughter to be knocked down a few pegs. There’s also a warrant out for Sophie Chen’s arrest, if she ever shows her face in the area again.”

Rose gulped.

The patrol officer who wouldn’t share his name zip-tied her wrists together and frog-marched her toward the door. She planted her foot and stopped in front of Chul.

“My friends will worry when they realize I’m not here. They know nothing about the program or whatever this is about. Can you make sure they don’t worry for me?”

Chul blinked twice at her before replying. “I’ll try.” He darted his gaze to the man behind her, who shoved her forward.

But Rose knew that as long as Chul wasn’t arrested as well, he would tell not only her friends, but also within a few hours, Tío would know. He couldn’t do anything about whatever she faced. But Tío could pass word along to Rose’s mother, Sophie. The last thing Rose wanted was for her mother to return to Little Asia, only to be arrested, too.

Rose descended into the deep breathing practice she’d learned in PE class, except without the accompanying motions. Deep breath in through the nose for five counts. Slow exhale out of the mouth for five.

The unnamed patrol officer pushed Rose past the others in her hallway, and she automatically turned toward the stairs. The officer, however, steered her toward the elevators instead.

“Those never work,” she said, not even thinking about the consequences of questioning this patrolman. Stupid.

“They do today,” he said.

Go figure. Of all days for the elevator to work, it would be the day of her arrest. Or maybe they always worked, but only for certain people.

As the elevator descended in fits, starts, and loud coughs, Rose thought about her predicament. Had she missed some sign of imminent arrest? She actually doubted the Staff Sergeant or their program director would sacrifice even one participant, unless the charges were serious and credible.

What had they seen or heard?

Or had her questions in class and poking at the wall’s sonic tech triggered her arrest?

That wasn’t nearly enough cause in her mind, given she was in a physicist training program.

There had to be something else going on. But what did Rose know? Nothing.

“Lin, do we have to stop at patrol offices, or can we go straight to the warehouse?” one patrolman flanking Rose asked.

So, the boss-brute’s name was Lin. Why did his name sound familiar? Lin was a few years older than her, so maybe she’d remembered him from school? That seemed unlikely. Rose barely knew her classmates’ names, let alone kids years ahead of her.

“He won’t expect us to stop back by,” Lin said. “That was for the idiot patrol officer’s benefit.”

Rose took offense on Chul’s behalf. He was no idiot. The comment said more about these men than it did Chul. But now Rose doubted they were actually patrol officers.

They had the uniforms, but Chul didn’t know them and neither did Rose. Which meant they weren’t real Little Asian patrol officers. Then why did they wear their uniforms?

With a thud and a bounce, they arrived at the ground floor, throwing Rose into Lin at her back. He shoved her away, then marched her out of the elevator and into the lobby. Several of the men saluted the guard at the desk as they passed, but not Lin. A sleek black SUV with a gun-turret mounted on top stood idling at the curb.

Rose’s eyes widened. She’d seen that type of SUV before. But only once.

She dug her heels in and pushed back against Lin’s solid body mass.

And now she knew exactly what was going on, and who was taking her away. The memory of an overheard conversation floated to the surface, and the dots connected for Rose.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Lin said, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her as if she weighed nothing. He threw her into the back seat, and Rose narrowly avoided smacking her head on the SUV’s door frame. A large Obsidian man tugged her upright to sit, while a slender Ivory guard entered the SUV behind her.

“You aren’t patrolmen,” she said, finally noticing their uniforms didn't have a patrol emblem. “Don’t you think people here will figure that out? Where are you taking me? And what right do you have to go around the law?”

This was no arrest. And they weren’t heading to the Little Asian patrol offices.

“Shut her up,” Lin said, as he climbed into the front passenger seat.

While the Obsidian man held her steady, the Ivory man affixed a dirty cloth around her head, binding her mouth and nearly gagging her with the stench. Rose’s mind raced through escape strategies, discarding one after the other. She had to stay awake and memorize their route, just in case she escaped.

It helped they had her perched in the middle, staring straight out of the SUV’s windshield. They passed under the tattered remnants of the Spring Lantern Festival strung between the towers, and Rose shuddered. Would she ever take part in the dancing parades or festival songs again? Would she ever see the colorful lanterns swinging in the breeze?

They wove through the Little Asia area, drawing curious eyes from passersby. Seeing anything other than delivery vehicles on Little Asian streets was rare. She didn’t blame pedestrians for gaping at the sleek black SUV. She would’ve gaped, too, were she an observer. But, right now, Rose focused on remaining calm and thinking.

The patrol officers stationed at the north gate out of Little Asia into the abandoned city beyond waved the SUV out, not stopping them to ask questions or check authorizations.

These men had kidnapped her. And Rose suspected she knew who was responsible.

12

Jason was back on patrol. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d left the Ivory Patrols to run QT3. It had nearly killed him to leave his mother behind to focus on the camp and win freedom for its prisoners. But she’d insisted on it.

Then he and Marcos and a bunch of their friends and Underground operatives had done the impossible. They’d freed the camp. Its former inhabitants were now recovering in an old, abandoned warehouse in the destroyed city outside Queenstown. At loose ends, Jason had gone back to Foster, his old boss, who’d immediately paired him with Sam, Jason’s old patrol partner.

The pair was on woods patrol. It felt like Jason had come full circle. This patrol route was where he had first realized all wasn’t right in Queenstown. All still wasn’t right, though there was one less labor camp operating in the FRA.

And now Jason couldn’t even live in his own home. The large Ivory estates property lay empty. Jason had scrambled to move his meager possessions in with Sam after learning his father had escaped prison. Or rather, been freed.

“Why are we still doing this?” Jason asked.

He followed Sam down the scant deer path in the woods, looking for signs of human activity. Trash, bent shrubs, footprints, you name it, they’d found it. But that was when camp guards were coming and going from the city from Ivory’s northern border. That people had gotten out meant the cliff wasn’t the barrier they’d thought.

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think we saw the camp guards,” said Sam. “Can’t be unless they’re heading to one of the other two labor camps.”

Jason scratched his chin with his free hand, his patrol-issued revolver held in the low-ready position in the other.

Sam held his fist up in a “halt” signal. Jason listened to the wind rushing through the trees and heard the faint shuffling of something through the underbrush.

“Animal?” he whispered.

Sam shook his head, then pointed off the trail toward the noise. Sam dove into the woods, past a craggy shrub, and around thin tree trunks. Jason followed, clicking his safety off and whispering a call for back-up into his communicator.

“10-4,” the female dispatch operator said into Jason’s earpiece. “Sending backup to your location.”

They heard hushed voices, then bodies crashed through the woods ahead of Sam and Jason.

“That’s no animal,” Jason said, as he spread out from behind Sam.

The two would approach the group from the sides in a pincer move. If only Jason and Sam could catch them before they descended the cliff and were lost to the ruins beyond.

Sweat poured off Jason’s brow, and he shook his head to clear his eyes. Sprinting through the woods at night was dangerous enough without being blinded by your own sweat. He lost Sam in the trees to his left, but kept on a beeline to where the cliff’s edge should be.

Jason emerged from the cover of the trees and slammed to a halt, windmilling his arms to keep himself from tumbling over the cliff. Breathing hard, Jason peered over the cliff and saw a group disappear into the cavern of concrete and rebar at the base of the cliff, far to his left.

“Bonders,” he cursed with a stomp.

He worked his way along the cliff to Sam, who knelt at the edge of the cliff, pieces falling away beneath his hands as he dug into the soil.

“Did you see them?” Sam asked.

“Yes, they disappeared through there,” said Jason, pointing to the morass of concrete to their right. “But I didn’t see how they got down the cliff.”

“It’s gotta be here somewhere.”

“I’m going to find it this time. I know you all were trying and never located the way down, but it’s gotta be here.”

On the way back toward where he’d spotted the group, Jason saw the slightest indentation on the cliff’s edge. He stepped onto the rock and it wobbled under his feet, throwing debris down the cliff.

“Whoa,” Sam said as he hauled Jason up by his collar. “Don’t kill yourself. Let’s come back during the day.”

“You think Foster will approve that?”

“I absolutely will,” his boss said from behind them, Smitty, their watch commander and second in-command at Ivory patrols, trailing Foster. “We have to figure out who this is. End of statement. You two are approved to poke around all you want. Find the way down this cliff and find out where they’re going. And that’s an order. Everything else can wait.”

Jason propped his fists on his hips and stared at his commanding officer. “Aye, sir.”

Sam saluted. “Can’t we just track their chips?”

“No,” Smitty said. “That may tip off certain individuals that we’re onto them. We have to request permission to track citizens outside the city.”

“Hmm,” Jason hummed, his brain working overtime on that. “So, who all can approve that?”

Smitty and Foster exchanged a long glance, Foster finally shaking his head in a firm no. Jason sighed. More information they wouldn’t get. At least yet.

“Post up here for the rest of the night,” said Smitty. “Who knows. Maybe more pufferdoons will come this way. And in the morning, if no one appears, search for the way down the cliff.”

“Yes, sir,” he and Sam echoed.

Foster clapped a hand on Jason’s shoulder, then turned and left.

“Wow,” said Sam.

“I truly didn’t expect to see anyone in these woods tonight,” said Jason. “Now I say bring it.”

When Foster and Smitty were out of earshot, Jason turned to Sam. “What do you make of them not wanting to tell us the truth?”

“I think the answer is it’s someone outside Queenstown who gives that approval,” Sam said. “And they don’t want that person to know Queenstown has big issues. Or not yet. Let’s get moving.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” said Jason. “But wow, it’s frustrating.”

“Tell me about it. You want to take cover back that way,” said Sam, pointing to where Jason had nearly gone over the cliff edge. “And I’ll find a hiding spot over there.”

“Sounds great,” said Jason. “Or as great as a stake-out during a sweltering night can possibly be.”

Jason watched as Sam located a thick tree trunk and disappeared into the night before heading toward the cliff’s edge. He settled onto the wet ground with a sigh. The idea of waiting on the slight chance more people would come this way, then trying to find a way down the treacherous cliff filled Jason with dread. This was going to be a long night. There had to be an easier way to do this, but Jason couldn’t think of one.

13

The SUV bounced over potholes and broken blacktop and came to a stop behind a squat concrete block building sprawling over an entire block. Lin exited the vehicle and motioned for the others to bring Rose. The men pushed and pulled Rose through the loading dock door and into a dark hallway, dim bulbs far overhead the only lighting. She ducked to avoid a spider web, then shouldered through the opaque plastic strips covering a doorway into a large open room.

She gawked at pallet after pallet of goods stacked almost to the ceiling — canned goods, weapons, dark clothing, and ammunition according to the labels — before they dragged her up an open-sided metal staircase and into a dusty room no bigger than her bathroom.

The Obsidian man shoved her into the wall and Rose collapsed onto a thin mattress lying on the floor. Lin propped his fists on his hips.

“I hope you’re ready to talk,” he said. “If not, we have plenty of incentive to help you.”

The other two chuckled and a low tension grew in Rose’s belly. Would they torture her? Her mind skipped and jumped ahead to beatings, electrocution, and water boarding. Marcos had been whipped upon entry to the labor camp, and Lin had been one of the worst guards there. It had taken her a minute to realize how she knew him, but now she’d never forget his face as long as she lived.

Rose doubted she could withstand a whipping. She’d be squealing the truth in no time.

She was no Marcos — strong, tough, and determined. Nor was she particularly brave. Stubborn, yes. Harriet was brave, running messages as a kid, and more recently, entering other areas to deliver messages. All in the name of advancing the Underground’s mission.

Could Rose hold in her secrets? She’d have to. Which meant she’d have to lie. Jason came to mind. How he’d deceived his father and Junior, working with the Underground, while running Martin's secret labor camp.

Rose sat taller, vowing to be brave like Harriet, determined and loyal like Jason, and tough like Marcos. If she couldn’t have her friends here with her, she’d honor them in her actions.

The Obsidian guard snapped the zip tie in two with a pocketknife and a quick tug, freeing her wrists. The three men left the room with a thud of the door and a scratch of the deadbolt turning. They’d prepared for this. The lock on the door, thin mattress and bucket for her needs on the floor, and the high, narrow block glass window. This was no ordinary holding cell.

Rose ran to the door and tugged on the handle, throwing her weight against it. Not even a wiggle. She huffed out a breath and sank to her knees. Peering under the door, she saw the hallway — a thin strip of it, at least. Boots facing outward filled the center of the doorway.

Great. Locked in with a guard on the door. Probably the brute who’d gagged her earlier.

The tap-tap of several sets of footsteps on the metal stairs sent Rose scrambling backward onto the mattress. A key grinding in the lock preceded the door flying open. Hudson Britwell entered the room, a smirk aimed in her direction.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “So we meet again. You thought you could help my son destroy the labor camp, and no one would notice? Oh, don’t worry, it’s only a matter of time before the hammer hits this city. Our Supreme Commander is a very busy leader. He has his priorities and left this to a willing subordinate. It took me a minute to convince Romel of my plan, otherwise I would’ve had you here sooner.” He turned and ordered the guard to bring him a chair. “Let’s get to know each other.”

Rose gathered spit and flung a glob in his direction. “You don’t deserve my words, scum.” Also, now Rose’s mind filled with stark portrayals of how Martin could retaliate for the labor camp. Images of burning towers in Little Asia, dead children in Havana, Ivories being marched off to mass graves, and Obsidian families being executed came to mind. She pushed them away for later. Lying to Britwell — without him realizing she did so — needed her entire focus.

Hudson Britwell grabbed her shirt and dragged Rose to her feet, slapping her face before shoving her back onto the mattress. He wiped her spit off his cheek. She’d never been so proud of her aim in her life. The slap was worth her stinging cheek.

The guard brought in a wooden chair and Hudson settled into it, hooking an ankle over a knee and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Please make yourself comfortable in my room,” Rose said. If only her gaze could drill a hole through his head.

“I like a feisty woman. My wife was feisty like you when we first married. Of course, I broke her.”

How dare he mention Eleanor Britwell? The woman he’d likely murdered. Jason’s mother. An Underground operative. But Rose kept her face blank, refusing to break eye contact with him.

“So, tell me where Sophie disappeared to,” he said. “We almost had her. Of course, you were much easier to grab. More compliant with your unwavering dedication to the training program. Dr. Weber thought you might spook at the cameras.”

Her eyebrows climbed upward.

“Oh yes, he’s been a partner for years. One of my first partners. The man owes me everything. But I digress. The cameras told us a lot. Enough.”

But those cameras couldn’t have seen anything and certainly not her reading her mother’s journals, working on the code inside her bedroom without success. No way. The cameras were only in the main living areas. And she’d found and disabled the listening devices everywhere, including her bedroom. Maybe they suspected she knew too much based on her questions in class? But nothing she’d discovered was treasonous. Yet.

This was a fishing expedition, and her program director, Dr. Xiu, had decided he didn’t need her in the program.

That was bad. If it were true.

Hudson rambled on as Rose processed her disappointment. That program was supposed to be her ticket out of Queenstown, into working across ethnic areas and on something meaningful. Had her mother been right this entire time, and Rose had refused to see it? Had her stubbornness and anger blinded her?

Rose closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

“And how Jason ran that camp told us all we needed to know.” Rose’s eyes flew open as she registered Hudson’s words.

“We know he’s a rebel, too. Hopefully we’ll have him in the cell next to yours shortly. I can’t wait to get my hands on him. His entire life, all I did was support him, cheer him on, and this is my payback?”

She wanted to tell Hudson that was why Jason had chosen to not follow in his father’s footsteps — Jason had refused the payback his father expected. When she’d finally listened to Jason instead of railing on him for being who he was, Rose had learned he definitely wasn’t his father’s son in personality or motivations.

While Rose had little confidence in the FRA’s justice system’s moral compass, once someone landed in prison, no one saw them again. The regime was extraordinarily skilled at killing its enemies, except in the case of one Hudson Britwell.

The National Director of Prisons, aka Junior McBain, stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and gesturing for Hudson to get up. Rose pursed her lips at Hudson Britwell’s obedience. She had expected Hudson to be in charge, not a man twenty-plus years his junior.

Then she realized exactly how Britwell had escaped prison. Junior. Of course, the big boss could release anyone he liked.

“I know you know what we don’t want you to know,” Junior said.

Rose flared her nostrils and crossed her arms over her chest. She decided to remain silent, and nothing he said would bring a word to her lips.

Junior stepped into her space and dragged her to stand, their faces level. He was a short man, albeit strong to lift her body weight without her cooperation. She cringed at his alcohol-laced breath. Probably something hard, like whiskey. Definitely not the yeasty beer smell. Good grief. It was only early evening.

“I also know you know where Sophie is,” he said, his dark eyes on hers. In this lighting, his eyes appeared black, much like she suspected his conscience was. “And I know you know about the sono-nuclear weapon. We can’t have you figuring anything else out and warning others.”

Rose swallowed the spit gathering in her mouth, then clenched her teeth so hard, her cheek muscles bulged. Sono-nuclear weapon? What was he talking about? Was that what her program worked toward?

It made sense.

Rose’s racing thoughts swallowed her attention, a slap bringing her mind back into the room.

“—about the Underground.” Junior’s eyes sparkled, and a smile snaked across his face. “Oh yes, we know all about it. Even know where the headquarters are.”

Then they didn’t need her information — not that she could tell them where the headquarters was other than in the mountains. If they knew all that, the Underground was toast already, fried to a crisp by hover plane bombs. But they had her here. And Junior was demanding information. Which meant maybe they didn’t know everything. Not yet, at least.

And they wouldn’t be learning anything new from her.

“Nothing?” Junior tightened his grip on her t-shirt, the fabric bunching in his hands and revealing her bare stomach. She itched to pull her shirt out of his grasp, but she kept her hands loose at her sides. No reaction.

“Who’s the leader in Queenstown? Is it one of the city council members not part of my colleague’s alliance? Or is it someone whose vote swings back and forth with the winds of council politics? Or maybe it’s a factory worker or a driver or a medic? Could it be a patrol officer?”

Rose kept her face carefully blank, refusing to react to any of those possibilities. She didn’t widen her eyes, purse her lips, or twitch a muscle.

He threw her down on the mattress. “We can do this for hours. I will get information. No sense feeding or watering you until you cooperate. Not that you’ll survive— unless you strike a deal. We’ve had a few of those lately, haven’t we, Hud?”

Hud? Rose almost threw up in her mouth at Junior’s nickname for Hudson Britwell. And she’d rather die than strike a deal with this devil. No way. She’d either perish out here or escape and fight him with every cell of her body.

He’d made an enemy for life.

Junior pivoted, throwing a left hook. Her jaw exploded in pain, and Rose dropped into a defensive shell, her arms wrapped around her ribs and her head tucked between her knees. Fists pounded the sides of her body, and a boot kicked her thighs and rear. Rose let the momentum from the punches throw her around, just like Tío had taught her, blunting the blow’s impact.

Junior breathed heavily, and footsteps receded toward the still-closed door. Low voices conversed, and Rose knew more was coming.

Be brave like Harriet.

Junior grabbed her hair and yanked upward. The motion had Rose scrambling to stand so he didn’t pull her hair out. He smacked her across the cheek, then rammed her into the wall on the other side of the room. She collapsed into a pile on the cold tiled floor, and a booted kick stole her breath. Rose gasped and gagged, air rushing into her lungs, as pain blossomed along her side.

The door swung open with a creak. “Get the hose,” Junior said. Footsteps sprinted down the hall, the metal staircase screeching with every step. She hoped the thing collapsed on them.

Whoever had left returned, dragging a long rubber hose, kinked near the end. Rose stared at the water piling behind the bend, the hose taut with force.

So this was waterboarding? Rose tried and failed to imagine how water could make the most skilled operatives talk.

The same thugs as before entered, Hudson shrinking back against the wall to allow them to pass. They grabbed her arms and dragged her into the wooden chair. Each held an arm, tipping her back in the chair, and the larger Obsidian man directed the hose into her face.

Rose sputtered and gasped at the water flowing into her nostrils and mouth. She remembered what Tío had told her and tipped her head back further, allowing the water to flow in her nose, then out of her mouth, holding her breath.

Her lungs had practically exploded with need by the time the man removed the hose and launched her forward in her chair.

Rose expelled water from her nose, while gasping in lungfuls of air and vomiting out her stomach contents into a bucket thrust beneath her. All at the same time. Snot dribbled into the bucket.

Not a drop landed on the floor. Great. Rose had to be neat even while being tortured. She vowed to miss the bucket — if there was a next time.

She sneezed seven times in a row, not bothering to cover her sneeze or wipe her nose.

The Ivory guard gripped the hose in one hand, its end kinked and pressure building up along its length. He noticed her gaze and smiled at her. He had oddly gentle eyes. Maybe that’s how he fooled everyone. No one suspected him capable of waterboarding an innocent person.

She shook her head and cleared her nose one nostril at a time.

Round two started with little warning, other than her chair tipping back with her in it. This time, she flung her head even farther back, most of the water flowing over her face and off her forehead, drenching her hair and the floor behind her. One man cursed at the other, and a hand lifted her head so the water flowed into her nostrils again.

The routine continued. Each time they let her breathe, Rose allowed her body to deal with the water and kept her words to herself. Every time, Junior yelled at her for answers and threatened worse. But Rose maintained her silence, her face a mask of indifference. And when she could, she turned her head or tipped it backward to avoid the worst of the water pressure.

When they finally stopped, everyone but Junior, who stood like a sentinel in the doorway, was soaked. She had half a mind to see if she could take the shine off those fancy shoes. But exhaustion made her limbs limp. She had to conserve her energy.

Soft footsteps in the hallway brought her gaze up from where she sprawled in a puddle on the floor. Her jaw dropped at seeing who had joined Junior in the doorway.

Carrie Wang.

Her mother’s mentee and the woman Rose had watched sneak out of the Little Asian market, avoiding the cameras and the patrolmen on the loading dock.

Junior wrapped an arm around Carrie's waist and tugged her close to him, planting a kiss on her neck. Carrie’s eyes locked onto Rose, but Carrie’s expression said she didn’t know or care about Rose.

“I’ll bet you didn’t think I had allies so close to your family, right?” Junior’s arm moved from Carrie’s waist to around her shoulders. He turned her toward the hallway. “Get her cleaned up for our next party, since she still refuses to answer our questions.”

Not that Rose would’ve answered. Now she had seen Carrie Wang here, she wouldn’t give him even a syllable of her knowledge. Let them figure it all out on their own. Rose’s heart ached for all the time her mother had spent with that traitor, training her or mentoring her or whatever. All for Carrie to betray the family and side with Rose’s enemy.

The two thugs lifted her from the floor, the Ivory man throwing her over his shoulder, her head pointing to the floor and her sinuses draining onto his backside. As they walked down the metal staircase and out the back door, the Obsidian man gathered the ridiculously long hose and dragged it outside. He then handcuffed her to the metal railing at the loading dock while the Ivory man hosed her down. By the time they finished, the men were soaked to the bone and dotted with her vomit. Ha. Take that.

***

Rose stared at the four walls that were her new cage. Her life was steadily shrinking. First, the walls around Queenstown’s Little Asia hemmed her in. Then the walls of her small condo. And now this closet. She’d paced the length, then measured it using her own feet. Twelve Rose feet one way. Six in the other.

How they’d all fit inside the day before was beyond her. The brutes must’ve practically had their backs to the walls while they tortured her.

She laid on the thin mattress and stared at the ceiling. A swirl pattern held her attention there, at least. Better than a blank wall.

The key turned in the lock, and Rose launched to her bare feet, wincing at the cold floor. She’d removed her tennis shoes and tucked them beneath her mattress as a pillow. Also to dry them.

The guard ducked into Rose’s closet, her dinner tray in hand, his body blocking the door. He was a skinnier one, his long brown hair tied back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, its tail draping over the black uniform shirt.

“Chica, don’t think about doing anything,” he said, as he placed her dinner tray alongside one wall.

Rose dove at him, shoving him into the wall.

“Ow,” he said, pushing back against her.

She smacked him across the face, his head rebounding against the wall, then ran past him out in the hallway.

Rose sprinted for the metal stairs and felt dozens of eyes fall on her.

Walls’ balls. The one time she tries to escape, and there’s a meeting going on.

“Help me!” she screamed at the diverse crowd gathered. She saw people from every area, clumped into groups by their area, and grimaced. Why weren’t they using this opportunity to get to know people from the other areas?

The wiry guard tackled her from behind, her face slamming into the metal treads at the top of the stairs. He wrenched her arms behind her and lifted her up. Rose resisted, pushing forward, regretting her moment’s hesitation studying the crowd.

She wasn’t going down without a fight. She wrestled with the man, stomping on his booted feet and thrashing about. It was useless. He had her locked in place and with his heavy steel-tipped boots, her bare-footed stomps probably felt like love taps.

Junior and Hudson Britwell thundered up the stairs, Britwell trailing and shouting for everyone to get back to their training.

Junior barreled toward her, his fist connecting with her jaw before she realized he’d raised it. She whipped backward from the impact, pain exploding through her face and into her ear. She worked her jaw, but Junior gave her no time to recover. Punch after punch hit her gut, and Rose rolled forward, her entire body in agony. His steel-tipped boot in her ribs was the last thing she felt before the guard dragged her back inside her prison.

She woke up hours later, the warehouse a silent tomb and her face buried in her dinner. She’d laugh at being face-down in a dish she’d only heard Marcos gush over — two small enchiladas in a thin red sauce — but breathing hurt. Laughing was out of the question.

Limb by limb, she took stock of her body. Legs in pain, check. Abdomen in pain, check. Hips, ribs, and head in pain, check. Everything in pain, check, check, and check.

But she was alive.

Tears streamed down Rose’s face when a memory of dozens of people gathered downstairs drifted to the surface. Why were they here? Hudson Britwell had ordered them back to “training.” The only training she’d ever experienced was in the Underground.

Which meant this must be a militia or rebel organization. But why did the National Director of Prisons, a cabinet member who already wielded great power, need a militia?

Rose stretched her arms above her head and gently leaned to one side, then the other, wincing at the pain in her ribs where Junior’s booted foot had struck. She didn’t think he’d broken anything, but wow, the pain was serious. Rose wiped tears from her eyes and the enchilada sauce from her face with the hem of her tattered shirt.

She had to get out of here, but how? Rose had blown the one opening a guard had given her. She doubted any other guard would make the same mistake of entering her cell to deliver food again.

But if she didn’t get out, who else would tell the city about the militia or the sono-nuclear weapon? Or the fact the regime knew where the Underground national HQ was?

She had no clue why Junior and Britwell needed a trained army, but it couldn’t be good. They were angling for power somewhere. Queenstown would be the straightforward choice, but Martin’s palace might be the true aim. Who knew?

But perhaps this explained why Martin’s retaliation had tarried. Maybe Junior was controlling the flow of information upward to the Supreme Commander and hadn’t yet fully informed him of the labor camp’s liberation. If that were the case, then she had time. But not much.

She had so much thinking to do and longed for her notebook. Junior saying the words “sono-nuclear weapon” had set off a bomb inside Rose’s skull. All those equations had meant something. She’d actually been right. The regime had figured out how to incorporate sonic waves into a nuclear weapon. Rose had only envisioned a non-nuclear application, but now that Junior had revealed the truth, Rose itched to figure the physics out. At least she knew what her program’s aim was. Finally.

However, she hadn’t seen the militia coming. Days on end here and Rose had only now learned of the militia or whatever they were. She needed to work faster, piece the puzzle together more completely. Figure out Junior’s end game. Then escape and stop him before they all died.

She sat crisscross on the floor next to her dinner and rested her head against the wall, folding her hands in her lap. She’d taken her best shot, and it hadn’t been enough.

Rose sighed, then winced at the pain along her ribs, her right hand drifting over to cover the spot.

Rose dug into the now cold enchiladas with her fingers — no cutlery for her. Marcos would hate that this was her first taste of Havanese food. And Rose suspected his Mami’s enchiladas were far tastier.

14

Harriet picked at her dinner. It wasn’t the food’s fault she’d lost her appetite. Her heart beat at a frantic pace. She had to tell her family about everything, but how? They’d disabled the many listening devices around the home, but could she risk patrols catching wind of what she knew?

“What did that mac and cheese do to you, young lady?” Grandma Thompson asked.

Harriet looked up at her grandmother’s soft smile set against the wisdom lines on her cheeks and set her fork down next to her plate.

“Sorry, I’m a little distracted.”

“Worried is more like it,” her mother, Ruth, said. “Out with it. It can’t be about the draft. Everyone knows the regime is months away from moving anyone into training camp, and you’re a medic. They need you here.”

Harriet sat back, the ancient wooden chair groaning under the shift in her weight, and examined the swirls embedded into the ceiling. “No one is safe here.” She paired that with the coded signal for “patrols following.”

“Of course they are,” Grandpa Thompson said. “Standard procedure.” He signed “daughter” to her, referring to Harriet’s father’s execution as a traitor.

“But what about you all?”

“I am far too young for my child to be worrying about me,” her mother said. “When I’m old and using a cane, you can worry about me all you want. But for now, it’s my job to worry about you.” She lifted a napkin to the corner of her mouth and wiped non-existent food from her face. Then, with raised brows, her mother signed “be careful” followed by “do your job.”

Harriet blew out an exaggerated sigh.

“That mac and cheese won’t get any better cold, you know,” Grandma Thompson said. “You need your strength for all those long medic shifts, right?” She paired that with the code for “safe messenger,” letting Harriet know she wasn’t talking about Harriet’s medic shifts, but the messenger routes Harriet ran in between those shifts.

Harriet stabbed a few noodles and ate her dinner, pairing green beans on the same fork as her mac and cheese and stuffing the hoe cake in afterward. The cornmeal biscuits were delicious and staples in her home, but sometimes Harriet wished for variety, like Ivory toast or a bowl of rice like in Little Asia. She pushed back from the table, crossing her arms over her chest.

They were being naïve. Harriet couldn’t just leave her family exposed to the patrols. Using the old sign language her mother had mastered, Harriet’s hands flew.

“But if patrols keep trailing me,” she signed, “they’ll realize I disappear for long stretches of time. Plus, I learned they can track us using our chips. They’ll see me disappear off the radar since they can’t track our chips underground. Won’t they wonder where I went? And we have a mole in Obsidian. Someone is informing the captain. I can’t bear doing this without you three. If I keep running routes and going to HQ, the captain will eventually figure everything out. Then he’ll torture the truth out of me. And you’ll all be dead.”

Her grandparents and mother exchanged glances, and a frown marred her mother’s beauty. Harriet’s mother had already lost a husband to this regime. Harriet wouldn’t be responsible for her mother losing another family member. No way, no how.

Her mother replied in equally fast sign language. “You let me worry about the captain. But you may have a valid point with the chip tracking and about a mole inside the Underground. Harriet, you need to trust us to figure out who that is. You focus on your medic shifts and delivering messages. We’ll keep your routes either inside Obsidian or underground. Let us worry about whether patrols come knocking on our door or not. And if they do, I expect you to flee to HQ. Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand the patrols will take away my family if I don’t do something,” Harriet signed, then pushed back from the table, taking her clean plate into the kitchen and starting on the dinner dishes. Harriet clanged the pots and pans inside the sink, scrubbing to remove the stuck-on hoe cake.

Her grandmother embraced her from behind, her tight hug filling Harriet with warmth. This. She couldn’t let the regime take this away from her.

“What are you so afraid of, Harriet?” her grandmother asked her.

Harriet shrugged out of the embrace. “I can’t lose you all,” Harriet said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Takes more than a patrols inquiry to kill this old bird,” her grandmother said. “But you know we won’t live forever, right? No one gets that honor.”

Of course, Harriet knew her grandparents and mother would all die, eventually. But she wouldn’t cause it. And she still dreaded the day when she was the last remaining member of her family. Alone.

Harriet had to do something, and the way forward seemed crystal clear to her. Her family was far more important than any rebellion. Harriet decided then and there her involvement in the Underground was over. No more trips to the other areas or training at HQ. She didn’t care that the regime couldn’t track her underground. It was far too risky.

Harriet would stay in Obsidian, focus on the medics, and keep her head down. Her family’s safety was worth it.

15

Marcos’s knee jiggled as he listened to Tío argue with Moses and Abuela about the refugees.

“If they head to the IRT, they’ll never make it,” Moses said, leaning forward to prop his elbows onto the conference table.

“You have such little confidence in your former prison-mates,” Tío said, leaning back in his chair. “What makes you so certain?”

“Where would we get the food for the journey? There are too many kids. We’d be seen by the regime’s satellite monitoring,” Abuela said, ticking off reasons on her fingers. “And we need them here.”

Tío exhaled loudly. “That’s where I think you’re wrong. They’ll just be in the way. Very few have any training at all.”

“Let’s train them,” said Marcos. “I did. It’s not hard.”

“With what space and who would do that?” Tío rubbed his palm down his face, pulling his cheeks downward.

“We train them and that’s final,” said Moses. “We need an army to take on Martin. And we have one. They’re going stir-crazy here. And I think we can convince the council to not only feed and clothe them, but to house the refugees in empty buildings inside Central.”

Tío shot to his feet. “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard of! Talk about revealing our hand! I’ve had enough of this conversation. My final answer is no. The refugees leave in a week for the IRT.” Tío stomped out of the room, leaving Moses, Abuela, and Marcos behind, shaking their heads and exchanging befuddled looks.

“Sophie and Rose both being gone is getting to him,” Abuela said. “He’s worried about them. And therefore, won’t take any risks.”

“I mean, I get it,” said Moses. “But sending hundreds of trained fighters to the IRT is a recipe for disaster and a tragic waste. We can confront the regime now after decades of waiting. If we don’t and Martin dies in office, his replacement could be far worse. Greater restrictions, more surveillance, less freedom. All of that and we won't be mounting a successful rebellion.”

Abuela stood and crossed over to where Moses sat, draping her arms over his shoulders and leaning into him. Marcos averted his eyes downward. Public displays of affection, even totally innocent ones like this, still made him squirm.

“If we can’t do something, then I need to go somewhere,” he said.

“Stay here, Marcos. We can’t give away our position,” said Abuela.

Little did she know that he’d been going on runs through the abandoned city regularly. Walking past the sentries with the pretext of an errand or a security sweep, then running well past their perimeter. He’d taken routes through the debris of another era to clear his head. And to get some alone time. Camp refugees now crowded every available inch of HQ, gathering in groups chatting, eating, or sleeping on the floor. When the revelation about the regime tracking their chips came out, leadership had pulled the refugees back into the tunnels, out of the open. Add to that regular sentries and scouting parties to monitor for the regime’s retaliation, and everyone was on high alert.

“Right,” he said, pushing back from his chair and waving a goodbye to the leaders.

He nodded in greeting as he passed refugees congregating in the tunnels, then told the sentries on duty outside to stay awake and that he’d be back soon. One told him to be careful, that he’d heard hover planes overhead but hadn’t seen the monstrous flying machines.

Hover planes near Queenstown? That didn’t sound right. Perhaps Martin already had a plan of retaliation and was just baiting them. Or worse, observing them. He scanned the sky, but finding it empty, broke out into a run. Marcos would be more cautious than usual on this run. But he had to clear his head and let his anger at Tío’s cowardice go.

It took over twenty minutes at a sprint before Marcos broke a sweat. He’d reached an unfamiliar area and could finally add to his mental street map of the abandoned city.

As Marcos approached an intersection, he ducked in beside a fire-licked home. His route through the abandoned city was mostly on small residential back streets, the pavement littered with destroyed cars and scattered household goods. But every once in a while, he had to cross a pristine, cleared, and repaved street. And this one was even big enough to have gotten fresh blacktop recently. Which meant this was a driver route into and out of Queenstown.

He scanned in both directions, then darted across. Marcos’s thoughts wandered to his friend Rose. They’d received word only the night before that she’d been arrested, charged with conspiracy and treason. Marcos didn’t understand. He knew her well enough to appreciate she’d probably asked uncomfortable questions in her program, but wasn’t that the point? She’d told them her studies had drifted from rocket launches and fluid dynamics into nuclear energy. She was there to learn; and learning meant asking questions to complete your understanding. But Marcos could see her pushing the boundaries of what was appropriate, perhaps even crossing into sacrosanct topics. And he doubted she’d back off simply because a teacher told her that a question was treasonous. Knowing Rose, she’d press right through until she figured it all out.

But as a counterpoint, this regime didn’t tolerate questions very well. Really, not at all. That’s what had always gotten Marcos in trouble — asking questions at the wrong time. He couldn’t help it, though. What they learned in school didn’t make logical sense.

Chul was digging more deeply at Little Asian patrol offices, but the supposed patrol officer who’d arrested Rose sounded far too similar to Lin for Marcos’s comfort. Chul also couldn’t find Rose in any of the typical lockup cells in his offices. Marcos guessed she could be in Central Prison, but that wasn’t standard protocol. His brain kept circling back to Lin being involved, and no explanation settled well in his gut.

Wherever she was, he hoped she was okay.

Which made Marcos regret how he’d left. He’d been so angry at Tío. But instead of talking to his mentor and trying to understand Tío's anxiety, Marcos had repeated past mistakes and just run out. Fleeing confrontation and feelings solved nothing, except now that he was here, he may as well fill in his mental map of the city.

Marcos neared the end of this grouping of homes and heard the sound he’d dreaded hearing on these runs — a vehicle. He ducked behind a rusting truck, concealing his body behind its enormous and completely flat tires.

As the vehicle passed, Marcos peered around the bumper to see which of his former driver colleagues had taken a route outside the city. But this was no ordinary delivery vehicle. The regime’s emblem on the side was blacked out, painted over as with a child’s paintbrush, the strokes messy and uneven. Men wearing black jackets, dark sunglasses, and black caps perched in the vehicle’s gun turret. Marcos ducked back and prayed they hadn’t seen him. No shouts of warning slowed the vehicle, though, and the high-pitched whir of its engine faded into the distance.

Marcos launched out of his hiding spot and sprinted to the corner, watching the strange truck disappear down a nearby street. He knew that street, had already explored the warehouse district down that way. So why was a truck heading into a district of abandoned and mostly crumbling warehouses?

Marcos bolted down the major boulevard, settling into a fast sprint as he lengthened his stride. He had to figure out where that truck headed. And why someone had blacked out the regime’s emblem on its side and mounted a massive gun on its top.

Anyone working for the regime would keep the emblem intact, which meant this wasn’t the regime. Or at least anyone acting on behalf of Martin. So, what was this?

He paused at the corner building, peering down the street in time to see the truck turn into a weed-filled lot a few blocks down. Men in all-black uniforms greeting the truck with a wave of long rifles nearly made him retch his breakfast.

Sentries meant something to guard.

This smelled fishy, and they were nowhere near the river. Definitely not the regime. They had military bases and entire cities full of people to boss around. Now Marcos was even more intent on figuring out who operated a secret base outside the regime’s walls and surveillance.

Marcos backtracked one street and picked his way through the warehouse district, his ears attuned for footsteps or low conversations. Or the hum of those hover planes again.

He had ducked behind a dumpster in an alley when a pair clothed in the same all-black uniform passed along the street closer to the warehouse. After they’d gone, Marcos cursed lightly.

No way could he get any closer during the day. He’d have to come back at night.

Because now, Marcos had to see what was inside that warehouse. Whatever it was, patrolling sentries and secret deliveries — along with the hover plane above an abandoned city — meant either a rebellion or worse, a force sent to find the liberated laborers.

16

Jason clapped Marcos’s back as his friend released him from a typical tight Havana bro-hug.

“Dude, you stink,” Jason said.

“Ha, I got back from my run last night too late for a shower,” said Marcos. “Everyone in the bunk room was fast asleep. Figured we’d sweat it out in some sparring, then I’ll clean up.”

Taking turns for the shower had become a norm around HQ, but Jason wondered how Marcos stood it for the days in between showers.

“Alright, let’s get to work, then,” said Jason. “And while we work, I have news.”

“You’re not the only one,” said Marcos, eyeing the many refugees in the training room. “But not everyone can know what I need to tell you. So maybe after we workout?”

Jason shrugged. “Okay.” What was another hour’s delay in sharing his news? It would change nothing. And maybe pumping some weight or sparring would work out some of Jason’s nervous energy.

Jason and Marcos walked past dozens of lounging refugees, some in heated conversation, and over to the sparring ring, with its thick mats and roped edges. They donned sparring gloves from the bin at the edge of the ring, Jason tilting his head from side to side to work out the cricks in his neck. Ever since his mom had died, he hadn’t slept well. This was true even after he’d moved in with Sam to keep his father’s henchmen from finding him.

Hudson was at large, and Jason had no clue where. The man who’d murdered his mother wouldn’t hesitate to kill his own son. Jason knew that without a shred of doubt.

Marcos and Jason ran drills, taking turns blocking one another as their bodies warmed up. By the time they started sparring for real, Jason was sweating and his mind alert. Their friends, Darcy and Michael, had entered the cardio area, and he’d hardly been able to acknowledge their presence. That’s how ferociously Marcos sparred.

“How do you have so much energy?” Jason asked Marcos, who bounced on his toes across from Jason as they reset.

“They really worked us hard at that prison camp. Now all I have to do is sit around all day and wait, I’m going nuts. I’ve been running in the abandoned city.”

Jason dropped his hands and stared at Marcos. “What are you thinking? You could get caught,” he whisper-yelled at Marcos.

Marcos shrugged. “Keep your voice down. Well, I haven’t been. I now know the abandoned city for a few miles in any direction like I know the streets of Havana. I know the alleyways and the streets where rubble blocks the way. Where the destroyed buildings are and where habitable warehouses exist. I know where entire neighborhoods burned to the ground and others still stand like they’re waiting for their owners.”

“Wow, that could end up being useful,” said Jason. “Why do you keep glancing around?” he asked Marcos, whose gaze darted back to Jason’s.

With no one within ten feet of them, Jason and Marcos were as alone as it got in HQ lately.

“Come close,” said Marcos, as he took a knee. “I need to tell you something, but I can’t risk anyone overhearing it.” He looked past Jason and nodded, as if to verify once again that they were alone.

“I found what I think is Junior’s hideout, some kind of armed group — a militia or something,” said Marcos. “I was on a run yesterday, and one of their giant vehicles with a machine gun turret rumbled by. Same kind Junior came out to the labor camp in. They almost saw me, but I’m fast. I trailed them as best I could. They disappeared into an intact warehouse. The dead giveaway was the roads were clear the entire way.”

Jason’s mouth dropped open. “Where?”

Marcos shrugged. “If my bearings were right, outside Ivory a ways. Maybe also close to the road leading out of the city from Little Asia.”

“Can you draw a map from here?”

Marcos snorted. “Of course, I can. That’s where I wanted to head after we were done, to find paper and a pen.”

“Who else knows?”

“No one,” said Marcos, looking over his shoulder before turning back to Jason. “I’ve been waiting to tell you all. I’m okay with bringing in Harriet or Sam, maybe Moses and Abuela or Michael and Darcy. But everyone else around here just sits on their butts. We need to figure out what’s happening there.”

“Now it makes sense,” said Jason. “My dad must be out there, too. He just disappeared into thin air after his release from Central Prison.”

“Or Junior has him hidden away wherever he stays,” said Marcos.

“His yacht. But no one can board it anymore. I tried. Junior has thugs crawling the Central Depot and the docks. Some of them were my former employees at the camp who escaped justice.”

“Huh. Not surprised. What do you think they’re planning?”

Jason shook his head. Unfortunately, too many options came to mind to put a finger on any one scheme. “It could be anything, if in fact this is my father and Junior. Absolutely anything.”

“Well, come on into the conference room so I can draw you a map and tell you something even worse,” said Marcos. “You and Sam can probably investigate from Ivory’s side, too. I’m going to take Michael tonight and stake out the place from our end.”

Jason shook his head to clear his brain. What could be worse than Junior leading a militia? “I bet this is where all the people head who are using the Ivory woods to leave the city. If we don’t shut this operation down, I’m concerned we’ll have even bigger trouble than a secret and illegal labor camp existing right under our noses.”

Marcos and Jason passed the cardio area on their way out of the training room, Jason stopping when they reached Michael and Darcy.

“Hey Michael, Darcy,” said Jason. “How are you all?”

Darcy’s lips turned up, but didn’t quite reach her typical smile.

“We’re okay,” said Michael. “I can’t wait until my dad gets back from wherever he went. Boy, will he be surprised I’m alive.” A grin lit up his face.

For Michael’s sake, Jason hoped Rich would be glad to see him, too. If only Jason had a father-son relationship like that.

“I bet he will,” Jason said. “We need to head out, but it was good seeing you both.”

Darcy and Michael waved goodbye then headed for the free weights, already lost in conversation with their heads together.

“How is Darcy doing?” asked Jason.

“Not well. Sometimes she disappears for hours at a time. I know what she’s up to, and I wish she’d invite others into her grieving. We’re all sad, too. In Havana, mourning is a community affair, not this private thing like she’s doing.”

“That’s tough, man. But give her some room to process in her own way. Grief in Ivory is a very private thing, too. Not saying that’s good. Just how it is.”

“I respect her, but if I find her sobbing one more time, I’m going in,” said Marcos. “She shouldn’t go through this alone. Darcy always told me I didn’t have to bear the freedom of the camp alone, but now she’s doing the same thing with her grief. It’s not right.”

“Maybe Michael can draw her out.”

“That would be wonderful. But I’ll still keep an eye on her,” said Marcos.

Marcos and Jason left the training room and wove through the throngs of refugees heading to the kitchen to prepare the next meal. When they reached the conference room, they closed themselves in, plunging the room into a heavy silence.

“Out with whatever could be worse than the militia,” said Jason, taking a seat at the long wooden conference table. A stack of notebooks piled in the center and pens scattered next to them were the sole contents of the room.

“Rose was taken from her condo,” Marcos said, sitting next to Jason and resting his hand on Jason’s shoulder.

“What?” Jason flew out of his seat and paced the room. “How? She had Little Asian patrols in her lobby, on her door, and, if I heard correctly, in her condo. How could someone waltz in and take her?”

Marcos stood in his path, forcing Jason to stop. The two were almost the same height, with Marcos having the slightest edge. “It was Lin, based on Chul’s description and a bunch of other facts that aren’t adding up. She’s not in a Little Asian patrol lockup, despite being accused of treason. Chul got to Grace as quickly as he could to tell her what happened, but his boss was in on it. They’re piecing everything together, but perhaps your father is behind it all and the treason charges are a smokescreen?”

Jason looked up at the ceiling and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course he’s involved. There’s no question in my mind. He throws that treason accusation around like candy at a parade. Where did Chul think they took her?”

“They left the city, according to a witness who saw an SUV with a mounted gun turret leave the north gate out of Little Asia.”

“So, she’s maybe at this militia warehouse?”

Marcos shrugged. “Who knows. I don’t. It’s possible, but why house a captive somewhere dozens of operatives could see her and maybe blab to someone on the outside about her being there? That seems stupid to me. More likely is they’ve taken her someplace further away from the city.”

“Okay, then we definitely need to find this warehouse and search it, make sure they’re not holding her there. We have to find her. If she’s alone, I can’t imagine how scared she must be,” said Jason.

Marcos raised his brows at Jason. “Scared. Or maybe angry. Anger seems much more in line with Rose’s character.”

“Yeah, but beneath that anger lies a raging fear. I know I’ve been the brunt of her anger before. She was angry at me because she feared my betrayal of the Underground, given who my father is,” Jason said, remembering how Rose had launched herself at him, how he’d barely defended against her swift punches and kicks, when he had shown up at HQ for the first time. She hadn’t believed the son of the biggest villain in the city could be on the side of right. But Jason had been, and they’d eventually worked together in the camp’s liberation fight. Jason had to find her. If Rose was mad at him for rescuing her, so be it.

As Marcos drew the map, a plan formed in Jason’s mind. He had a shift that night and decided he and Sam would find this warehouse from the city. It was exactly what Foster had ordered them to do, anyway.

Jason hesitated, debating whether to bring up one last boulder he’d been carrying. His friend carried so many heavy burdens himself, and Jason didn’t want to add one more.

“When I discovered Junior had freed my dad, the warden gave me a note,” Jason said. “He threatened to report me for my mother’s murder — me! Can you believe that?”

Marcos’s gaze snapped to Jason. “With what evidence? Nah, no one would believe it, and you have eyewitnesses who will place you at the very illegal and secret labor camp the night of her death.”

“That’s the thing. No one knows about that other than Foster,” said Jason, resting his forehead against his palm. “Would my dad be able to bribe Foster?”

Marcos snorted. “Not happening. That guy is straighter than a ruler. Hudson Britwell broke the rules, and the camp violated international law. You did nothing. And you definitely didn’t kill your mother. We all know that. Don’t let his empty threat bother you for another minute. Don’t give it your mental energy. He’s boxing at air.”

“Boxing at air. That’s a perfect image. Thanks, amigo,” Jason said, taking the map Marcos offered him, then exchanging their group’s handshake.

“Be careful,” said Marcos. “But you know who we’re dealing with, and what they’re capable of.”

Jason grimaced. He sure knew who they were dealing with. Far too well. And wished he didn’t know them so well. “I’ll keep you updated. And you be careful, too. Marcos, we can’t let them catch you. If we do, you’re dead.”

“Same back at you and Sam. You’re valuable, too.”

Jason knew he was living on borrowed time. He had to find his father and deal with the real threat. And also find Rose before they killed her. He didn’t want to imagine their friend group — or his life — without her spunk.

Jason walked out of the conference room and out of HQ, folding the map up into a small square as he jogged toward Ivory. He could hardly wait to get to the Ivory patrol offices and bring Sam into the plan. Good thing Jason had saved his cardio for last. They’d be doing a lot of physical activity tonight between finding a way down that cliff and canvassing the abandoned city for the warehouse.

17

Rose was so angry she could actually chew nails.

“Well, Ms. Chen, how are you today?” Junior laughed as he entered the interrogation room. “No, don’t bother answering that. I can see you’re cold, wet, hungry, tired, and otherwise miserable. Perhaps you have something to say before we start?”

Rose locked eyes with Junior and, puckering her lips, spat at him, her spittle hitting him square in the cheek.

No nails around, so spittle would have to suffice. Rose grinned at her successful aim. Again. She was getting good at spitting at a target.

Carrie walked into the room, and Rose let her expression fall back to bored indifference.

Junior slapped Rose across the face, then moved his fists to her abdomen and upper body. Rose slumped in the chair, curling in to guard her ribs. Her body swayed, moving with his punches, almost like she rolled with them.

“Junior,” Carrie interrupted him mid-punch. “She’s about to drop. And we’d both rather be doing other things, right?”

Carrie’s hand drifted down his chest from behind. Rose watched, horror creeping up her throat. With a grunt, Junior turned, pulled Carrie against him, and kissed her. That kiss looked painful, and not at all enjoyable. What did Carrie see in this guy?

“That’s for interrupting me. Don’t make a habit of it. I allowed it this time, but only because you were right. Go to work on her.”

“That’s more like it,” Carrie said, as Junior pushed past Carrie, knocking her shoulder back.

Junior leaned against the wall, hooking one ankle over the other and crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn’t that muscular, but his punches had stung far worse than any Rose had taken in training.

“Let me help you,” said Carrie. She tucked Rose’s wet, stringy hair behind her ears, adjusting her clothing to cover her shoulders and abdomen once again.

“Go get her a sweater, please,” Carrie said to the guard occupying the doorway. “You’ve soaked her, blasted her with a taser enough to singe her hair, and now she’s shivering. And you wonder why she’s not talking? Leave us, so we can have a little girl talk. But first, remove her handcuffs.”

Of course, the guard had soaked her. That was right before he’d used an electric taser on her. Her fingers still vibrated from shock after shock. The handcuffs fell away with a loud click. Her wrists were an angry red, and she rubbed the sore skin.

All Rose wanted right now was a bed. Even the floor looked appealing.

“Bring me a chair while you’re at it, too,” Junior said. “This might take a while. You know how girls are.” He winked at Carrie and gestured with a hand for her to get moving.

Rose and Carrie had never had a girl chat. Rose didn’t understand why Carrie had stopped Junior; why she cared how Rose was. All Carrie had ever done was monopolize Sophie’s attention.

Carrie approached Junior, her hand drifting up his chest to grip his chin. “Patience, my lover. We’ll get there eventually. We’re doing this my way this time, remember?”

He dragged her closer. “And you better show some results for all this fuss, understand?”

“No worries. Is there someplace else you’d like to observe from? Are you comfortable?”

“You know, that’s a reasonable idea. I’ll be next door watching and listening. Just know that I didn’t give Hud this freedom, and he’s trained in interrogation, unlike you. Or so I thought.”

“Of course, sir.”

Junior left the interrogation room, and the guard walked in, dragging a worn wooden chair and a hole-riddled blanket.

“Set the chair here,” Carrie ordered, gesturing in front of Rose. “And is that the best you can do — a nasty, torn blanket? I hope this isn’t all she has to sleep on. It’s practically shredded. No wonder Ms. Chen hasn’t told you men anything useful. Find a real sweater or blanket this time and make it fast.”

Carrie draped the blanket around Rose’s shoulders, stroking her arms up and down, as if to warm Rose.

Rose took a deep breath and dropped her head to her chest. She didn’t want to accept this comfort, but Carrie’s touch seemed gentle, far too gentle for an enemy. What game was Carrie playing here?

“So, while the guards are away, I thought we’d talk. Woman-to-woman. Is that ok?”

Ah. She was flattering Rose, so Rose would open up.

Rose rested her hands in her lap, shoulders down and legs crossed at the ankles. If anyone walked in on them and missed her wet, bedraggled state, they might think the two women were enjoying a warm cup of green tea and the latest gossip.

“I think we can solve your problem together, if you’re willing. Are you willing to work with me? I can safeguard things or people important to you, if you cooperate. Do we understand each other?”

No way would Carrie go after Rose’s mom. Sophie had spent more time with Carrie than with Rose. If you didn’t count the hours Rose slept in the same condo as her mom. So why the empty threat that if Rose didn’t cooperate, something might happen to Sophie? Maybe Carrie didn’t have as much power with Junior as their earlier exchange hinted at.

Or was the threat aimed at Amy?

Rose gulped back a sob. She’d never wanted to get her best friend involved. But Grace had taken that decision away from her, while Rose had been under house arrest. And Rose was grateful Grace had taken matters into her own hands, since Rose had helped free the labor camp prisoners, including Marcos, after Amy had busted Rose out of her condo.

Could she cooperate a little with Carrie?

“Yes,” Rose croaked out, her sore throat protesting. She’d screamed her lungs out in the last day, to no avail. Wherever they had her was so remote, there wasn’t anyone around to hear. At least no one who cared to rescue her.

“Well, good. Let’s start with the basics. Can you tell me about your new training program?”

Rose hesitated, her eyes on the door. “I probably can’t tell you much. They instructed us to not discuss the contents of the program, even with our families.”

Carrie rocked back in her chair. “Why?”

Rose shrugged. She didn’t care why. It just was. The only interesting thing they’d learned so far was the sonic technology built into the walls around Queenstown. Her brain snagged on the science, and once again, she pondered the sono-nuclear weapon Junior insisted she knew about. Rose hadn’t figured it out before they’d kidnapped her. But thanks to Junior, she’d worked out the weapon’s physics and basic operation. At least in her head. She longed for a notebook and pencil to work out the math, though. None of that understanding did her any good if she couldn’t get out of this place.

A hand on her knee brought her back, and Rose realized she’d missed whatever Carrie had said.

“Did Mr. Kim send you to the CAB on the night Junior and Britwell were in the Ivory offices?”

“What?” How did they know she’d been there? The cameras? Rose had been careful to duck her head back into her hoodie to hide her features. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why were you in the Ivory offices? Did Mr. Kim send you?”

Rose shook her head and tucked her chin into her chest. “I don’t talk to Mr. Kim. Ever. Period.”

Why bring up the mayor? And why would he send Rose anywhere other than to summon her to the CAB for her announcement? Why would he care about Rose? He wouldn’t. The Kims were about as warm as concrete in winter.

Carrie grabbed Rose’s shirt and dragged her upward. “You will tell us what’s happening. Tell us what you’ve discovered. We know you’ve learned something you shouldn’t know. And you’ll do so without making me beat you.”

As Carrie pushed Rose back into the chair, a cold object fell down Rose’s shirt. The action was so smooth, so unexpected, Rose fixed her face to not betray Carrie. Rose clasped her shirt tail with whatever Carrie had given her rolled up into it and tucked the whole handful into her underwear. A thin metal object chilled her skin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about with Mr. Kim. I never talk to him. All I’ve learned is what the program taught me. How could I learn anything the regime didn’t want me to know?” Rose raised her eyebrows at Carrie, then crossed her arms over her chest. This entire line of questioning made no sense.

Carrie’s eyes widened. “I’m waiting.”

“You know I can’t say anything about the program. And besides, doesn’t Mr. McBain already know all this? Isn’t he in Supreme Commander Martin’s cabinet? He probably knows more than I do, especially about whatever weapon he mentioned.”

The door burst open, and Junior flew at Rose, his fist crashing into her jaw with an explosion of pain. Rose and her chair tumbled backward with the momentum, her head cracking against the cement floor with a rebound. She raised a hand to grip her head, but the movement pulled at her shirt tucked into her underwear, stopping her.

The guard dragged her to stand in front of Junior. “It’s none of your business what I know and don’t know about the program,” Junior said, his spittle flinging against her cheeks. “You have information I need. Information beyond what we’ve taught you so far, and I want to know how you know these things.”

Junior slapped her, Rose’s head snapping, as if on a swivel.

Everything Rose knew she’d pieced together all on her own or from his unwise hints. And Junior’s anxiety about Rose’s knowledge confirmed she was onto something. But what?

Rose wished she’d worked harder on decoding her mother’s journals, as she bet the key to completing the picture lay inside. But even though she’d figured out how a sono-nuclear weapon might work, would she know how Martin intended to use it?

Rose wrung her hands together before quickly dropping them. She wouldn’t let him see an inch of her own terror. Nor would she say another word.

Junior gut-punched her, and Rose curled around his fist with a groan, falling to the floor. He kicked her in the back, and Rose wrapped her arms around her legs to curl into an even tighter ball.

“Stop, sir!” Carrie tugged Junior away from Rose. Her sleek, black, heeled boots swam in Rose’s vision, and Rose fought to stay awake. “We were finally getting information out of her! Please! Let me handle this!”

“You weren’t getting anywhere with her. I’ll just kill her, if she won’t talk. She’s learned about our plans, and I have to know how.”

Junior darted around Carrie to kneel by Rose’s side. “Who’s the snitch, Rose? Who told you?”

He rolled her onto her back and gripped her chin between his forefinger and thumb. Yet another place Rose would have a bruise in the morning.

Rose shook her head, pain lancing through her skull at the motion. Nothing more than a groan slipped past her lips.

“Take her back to her room and beat her up,” Junior said to the guard as he walked away. “Keep her alive, but only until we ransack her condo again. I will find the traitor. And when I do, they’ll both die. How she knows about everything won’t matter. It’ll die with her.”

Die with her?

Rose struggled to her feet, ready to dart out the door and race toward freedom. She wasn’t ready to die yet. But three people blocked her way. Then she remembered Carrie had slipped her something. A long, thin metal object.

But why? If she worked for Junior, why give Rose anything?

Unless Carrie was there for other reasons. Rose snorted. Of course, Carrie probably had her own agenda.

Carrie wrapped an arm around Junior’s waist. “I think we have better things to do now, right?”

Rose wanted to throw up. Why anyone would want to be around someone as awful and evil as Junior perplexed her. How could Carrie stand him?

Rose felt like she didn’t know the woman standing before her. Carrie’s behavior resembled little of the young woman who’d taught Rose how to pick a lock when she was a snot-nosed preteen, right after Sophie had taught Carrie.

Rose had never told her mother and doubted Carrie had, either. Why would they? Sophie would’ve grounded Rose forever, if she knew.

But whose side was Carrie on? Was she working with Junior? Or was she trying to protect Rose out of some debt toward Sophie? Or was she something else entirely?

Probably the last. But Rose wished she knew, wished she could trust Carrie. Her gut told her to trust Carrie about as far as she could throw her. And that wasn’t very far, especially since Rose’s entire body ached. Rose felt so alone, and that scared her more than anything else she’d faced. Even the beatings and the waterboarding.

Junior looked Carrie up and down, the predatory gleam in his eye sickening Rose further. “Yes, I think we do.”

The interrogation room door slammed on their exit, leaving Rose with a hulking Obsidian guard. He walked toward her, grinding his fist into his palm.

“Time to have fun with you, my little punching bag,” he said, right before his fist sunk into her left side.

Far too quickly, every part of Rose’s body throbbed and Rose’s entire world went black.

18

“Iwish we’d been able to find it the other night,” Sam said.

Jason grunted in agreement. As soon as he and Sam were beyond the listening ears and cameras of Ivory, he’d caught Sam up on what Marcos had discovered after trailing the SUV — a militia operating out of a warehouse. Or that’s how Jason described it, at least.

It had to be a rebellion, or else why would they hide? The Underground had done the same thing for decades, but this seemed far more ominous, because Jason knew who had to be at the center of said militia — his father. The Underground aspired to freedom. But not so his father or Junior.

Plus, Jason believed in his heart that his father and Junior had taken Rose. Jason could only hope they had her at this warehouse. That everything aligned into one place, one militia, one evil, power-hungry, mother-killing hocico de cerdo, as Marcos would say.

“Let’s try over here,” Jason said, leading Sam to the area where he’d explored the other night, but hadn’t found a path down. “It has to be here. There’s truly no other way. We would’ve seen footprints in the mud anywhere else. We’ve been back and forth along the edge of the cliff, and no sign of traffic.”

The rock was bare here, as if multiple pairs of feet over an extended time had kicked away the dust and rocks. The rock revealed no footprints or trail to be seen.

Jason wove down the rock face, a foothold here or a handhold there guiding him to the bottom of the cliff. Sam jumped down beside him as they faced the towering pile of concrete and steel that used to be an elevated road.

“It’s so much bigger up close,” said Jason, craning his neck backward to see the top of the pile.

He tried to imagine what the road must’ve looked like. Cars speeding in both directions, but it didn’t add up. He wondered where the pedestrians had walked on this massive street, and why the former America had enormous roadways when the current America hardly needed a two-lane road.

“Think about it, Jace,” said Sam, gesturing to the road which now lay in pieces in front of them. “Millions of people lived in this city alone, if what Abuela said is accurate. Even if she exaggerated a little and it was only hundreds of thousands, that’s still a whole lot of people. More than ten times our population. The trucks to deliver food alone would overwhelm Queenstown’s roads. You’d need a hundred distros, maybe a thousand, just for food. That’s not even counting market goods.”

Jason wiped a hand across his forehead, then cleaned the sweat off on his pants. How far his nation had fallen hit him like the steel bar sticking out of the center of the rock pile.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s find a way through, if not over.”

“They went through,” said Jason. “I’m sure of it. We’d have seen them climbing over that pile.”

The two poked around the road’s ruins, Jason sticking his head, hands, and feet into holes, only to come to a dead end every time.

“Here it is,” Sam whisper-yelled from the far southern side of the rock pile.

Jason jogged over to his partner, now out of view of the cliff, and drew his service weapon and a flashlight. Sam’s light already shone into the space, and Jason could see his partner was right. They’d found the way through.

Jason followed Sam into the seam between two massive road chunks, stepping over protruding steel bars and loose rock. The space quickly engulfed them in darkness, and Jason was grateful for their flashlights. Standard patrol carry.

Far sooner than Jason thought possible, the pair emerged into starlight on the other side of the collapsed road. Jason turned back toward the cliff and realized he couldn’t see the cliff face from this angle, either.

“Huh,” said Sam. “That’s why we couldn’t track them from up there. Makes sense.”

“Where do you think they go from here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Sam. “Let’s explore.”

“You lead,” said Jason. “I’ve got your six.”

Sam walked along the tree line with its firm dirt and leaf cover, heading west. Jason looked back and noticed they had left no footprints. The dense woods around them also had no tracks. Did the militia take this way because it was hard to follow?

Who could say? But that went both ways. The militia wouldn’t know anyone else had been through here, if this indeed was their route.

Sam emerged from the tree cover into an eclectic mix of crumbling buildings, destroyed roads, and intact structures. One building lay in ruins, while its neighbor stood unharmed. Jason itched to know the history of this area. What had destroyed most buildings but left some untouched? Fire? Or maybe poor craftsmanship? What about bombs? Could a bomb leave one building in ruins and its neighbor intact? Jason knew next to nothing about explosives other than the grenades they’d used in the camp’s liberation. But the grenades hadn’t fully destroyed the barracks buildings, only damaged them. Fire had done the rest.

The two wove through street after street in a grid pattern, most areas they passed through bearing telltale marks of the Great Civil War.

“This isn’t working,” said Sam. “We could do this all night and walk right past the warehouse and never know it.” Sam pounded the flashlight against his thigh. That would leave a bruise, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, I think we need to go from HQ,” said Jason. “That makes a lot more sense, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.”

“We were both excited to find the warehouse. I guess we should be happy with figuring out how they’re getting out of the city.”

“And I am, don’t get me wrong,” said Jason. “I wanted to find them, figure out if my father or Junior are involved, and take it all down before they do something heinous. And if they had Rose there, free her.”

Sam clapped a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “That was a big to do list. I’m concerned about Rose, too, but we’re not going to find her tonight. Let’s head back and file a report. Can you imagine how mad Foster is going to be?”

Jason chuckled. “I almost feel sorry for those militia guys. Now we know where they’re heading, I bet Foster will capture a few.”

“Don’t you know it. I can’t wait to get my hands on those pufferdoons.”

“If he lets us interrogate them.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I doubt he’d give two first year officers a crack at that.”

They worked their way back to the giant pile of road rubble, Jason stewing in his thoughts. How long would the northern border of Ivory remain open? He doubted Foster would leave an easy way out of the city now they had proof the cliff wasn’t the barrier everyone had assumed. But building a wall would take time, right?

Jason needed to know what Junior and Hudson were scheming. And if Marcos was right, they’d recruited Jason’s old camp guards — or at least the ones Jason despised most for their brutality.

“Hey, we’re off tomorrow night,” said Sam. “Let’s track this warehouse down from HQ and then figure out the route into Ivory. You game?”

Jason chuckled. Was he game? “I was born ready.” And Jason was positive Marcos would want to be involved.

Hours later, after they’d filed their report with an irate Foster, Jason followed Sam up the stairs to Sam’s small apartment. Jason’s legs were as heavy as the steel bars no longer holding up the massive roadway. And his mind felt like the jumble of rocks and concrete. They had far more to uncover if they wanted to stop his father and Junior. And he worried it was taking too long.

19

Harriet trailed the guys and wondered if she’d lost her mind.

Not three days ago, she’d vowed to avoid the Underground, stay in Obsidian, and stay out of all this mess — to protect her family.

Then Marcos had sent a message via Xavier. He needed her. For Rose’s sake.

So here she was. Like an idiot. Outside of the city, let alone outside of Obsidian. If patrols had tracked her leaving the area, her family would be dead before she returned.

But Alma May’s words to “be brave” echoed in her mind. Harriet wasn’t brave. That was her cousin — fearless and undaunted by patrols or anyone else. Alma May was a rule-breaker.

Harriet was none of that.

She shivered in the cool spring night air and wrapped her arms around herself.

“It’s just up here,” Marcos said. He led their foursome — Marcos, Jason, Sam, and, trailing behind like some lost puppy, Harriet. The guys didn’t seem scared at all. Excited, sure. They kept trading wide-eyed grins, as if they were about to crash a birthday party instead of a well-armed rebellion.

Harriet followed Marcos as he ducked into a narrow alcove in a neighboring darkened warehouse, the bass pounding in her chest like the speaker was next to her.

Their target warehouse sounded like a spoken word concert. How the patrols inside Queenstown didn’t hear the blaring music and see the glow of lights was beyond Harriet. Perhaps they were far enough away? The old, abandoned city stretched for miles around them. Its size and scope had astonished Harriet when she’d first delivered a message to the labor camp.

“How are we handling this?” said Sam. “I want to see inside, but those are definitely sentries at the doors.” He pointed at several dark figures lurking in the shadows next to the loading dock, then to others walking the perimeter.

“If we time it right, we should be able to glimpse inside the windows on the other side,” said Jason. “Marcos, you’re the tallest and Harriet, you’re the lightest. What if Marcos boosted you on his shoulders, and you looked inside?”

Harriet swallowed thickly. Why had she come again? “Alright,” she sighed. She’d come for Rose.

Marcos grabbed her hand. “On my mark we’ll need to sprint, but not like a bunch of middle school boys heading to lunch.”

“Got it. Run quietly.” She squeezed his hand and let go; the electricity strumming between them overwhelmed her. She couldn’t concentrate with him touching her like that. And thinking about how his hand felt in hers was fruitless.

“Now,” said Marcos, right before he took off at a sprint, his long legs eating up the pavement between their hiding place and the corner of the adjacent warehouse.

Sam shoved her. “Go.”

Harriet sprinted after Marcos, slamming into the concrete wall next to where he’d stopped at the far corner. He ducked around the corner, dragging her with him. She trailed behind him, telling her breath to slow and her heart to calm down. Marcos halted at a set of grimy windows and peered over the sill.

“Empty,” he said, gesturing for her to follow.

Marcos stopped at several more, their rooms all empty, until they heard voices filtering from an open window high above her head.

“Get on,” Marcos said, kneeling down and gesturing she should climb onto his shoulders.

“I’m way too heavy,” she said.

Marcos laughed. “Doubtful. I used to give Flavia rides like this all the time. Come on, those sentries will be back soon.”

Harriet climbed onto his shoulders, gripping his ribs with her legs. He rose in one fluid motion.

“What do you see?”

What she saw made no sense.

Pallet upon pallet of rations — canned goods, rations bars, even stacks of rice, potatoes, and pasta — then there were the people. Scattered around the open area, they gathered in groups by area. Ivory with Ivory; Obsidian with Obsidian; and so forth.

“Wait, I recognize a few guys from the standoff at the gate,” she said. “Describe Lin.”

“He’s a shorter Little Asian, but well-muscled. He has a scar on his temple that disappears into his hairline. And he’s always frowning. Maybe he cut his hair, but it used to stick up in places.”

“I think I see him,” she said. “He’s bossing around a bunch of other Little Asians. That’s why I asked. But no Junior or Britwell.”

“Do you see weapons?”

Unfortunately, she did. “Too many. Plus there’s a table set up with food. But only Havanas are eating it. Everyone else looks upset.”

“Man, I could eat some enchiladas and tamales right about now,” said Marcos, kneeling again for her to climb down. “Let’s get out of here.”

She sprinted after him, rounding the corner and dashing toward the tree line along the east side of the warehouse. To avoid the sentries and get back to where they’d left Jason and Sam, they’d need to take a wide circuit around the area. Ten minutes and a long sprint later, they rejoined Jason and Sam.

“Well?” said Sam. “What did you see?”

Harriet rested her hands on her knees and panted to catch her breath. It had been a long time since she’d done wind sprints in the tunnels with the other operatives. “Rations on massive pallets. People gathered by area including Lin. A table full of Havanese food that only the Havanas were eating,” Harriet said. “But no Junior or Britwell.”

“My father is in there,” said Jason. “Has to be.”

“I also recognized a few of the camp guards we fought at the gate,” said Harriet. The fight for QT3 had been brutal, and they’d lost skilled operatives. Harriet would never forget having to leave an Ivory operative to bleed out or watching Win die, powerless to save either despite her medic training.

A war arose inside her — avenge their deaths and set things right or stay safely locked behind the walls in Obsidian. Tonight, she’d fight. But starting tomorrow, she’d play it safe. She couldn’t lose anyone else close to her.

Jason cursed. “I knew they had a plan. When Lin and his cronies all left, abandoning those women and kids chained in their bunk house, I knew they’d had someplace to go. It only makes sense that Junior and my dad are in charge here. Who else would Lin listen to? He reported directly to Junior the entire time I was director. But we need evidence before we can bring Foster in.”

“Why?” said Sam. “I think this is enough. What we’ve seen will light Foster on fire with anger.”

Jason shook his head while running his hand through his hair, making it stick up on end. “No, it’s not enough. We need to find the way back into the city through the Ivory woods, then stake out that route. If we can observe my dad coming or going, we might have a chance. But will Foster want to oppose Junior? We have to be careful. Junior’s still one of Martin’s cabinet members.”

Sam hummed, not saying whether he agreed or disagreed with Jason. But Harriet read the resignation on his face. He’d follow Jason’s lead on this. As well, he should. They were right to hesitate at taking down a cabinet member when they were lowly first-year patrol officers.

“Well, this group isn’t up to anything good,” said Harriet. “They definitely had weapons in there. I couldn’t see everything, but there were some close enough to the patrol-issued rifles to make me think they have an inside source in Queenstown.”

“Sam, let’s head back into Ivory now that we know the way.” Jason gripped Marcos’s shoulder. “Be safe, amigo.”

“I should be saying the same thing to you,” said Marcos. “Hari and I will be fine. We’re heading away from this mess. You two may encounter operatives coming out here. Don’t get distracted.”

Sam shrugged and dragged Jason back the way Marcos and Harriet had come, through the tree line. Harriet hoped they knew where they headed, since the abandoned and destroyed city seemed like a maze to her, full of twists, debris, and blocked streets.

Harriet trailed Marcos as he darted from one shadowed building corner to the next alcove, then into an alleyway, which would take them toward the Underground warehouse. She breathed in the night air and vowed to never again take such stupid risks with her family’s safety.

20

“No!” Harriet added a curse to her silent exclamation when she emerged from the Underground tunnel entrance and saw the patrol officer standing on her back stoop, the door into her kitchen hanging open. She had arrived back in Obsidian in the early morning hours, with every inch of her body exhausted from their midnight exploration of the militia warehouse the night before.

She ducked back inside the empty building’s emergency exit, a desperate plan taking shape. Harriet retreated into the tunnel, then sprinted to the other Obsidian tunnel access point by the rec center.

She had no choice. No way would she leave her family to face the patrols alone, without her. Someone must have tracked her outside the city. They must have seen where she’d gone, that she’d not been back before curfew the night before, and were now taking her rebellion out on her family.

Alma May would tell her to be brave, and facing patrols is what Alma May would do if she were here now.

Harriet emerged from the hidden entrance into an alleyway between the rec center and the Obsidian administration building, tucking her hair into a cap she pulled from her backpack. The bright dawn sunlight nearly blinded her when she emerged onto the sidewalk after the darkness of the alleyway.

“Harriet, there you are,” Alma May joined Harriet. “I was looking for you everywhere.”

Harriet locked her cousin into a tight embrace. “I need to get home, and you need to find somewhere to hide. You all could be next.”

Alma May scoffed. “Not happening. I won’t let you face this alone, Harriet. I’m coming with you. And they wouldn’t dare touch my family again.”

The two walked through Obsidian, Harriet barely acknowledging others as they greeted her. She knew the plastic smile on her face gave away everything going on inside, but she didn’t care.

They approached her tree-lined street and Alma May ducked her head as they passed her family's home. Harriet thought she saw a tear stream down Alma May’s cheek, but her cousin turned her head away before Harriet could be sure.

Harriet turned down the walkway into their multi-family home and saw two wide-eyed faces, the Odele kids, at the window above her family’s living room. Harriet motioned for them to hide and they nodded, their faces disappearing from view.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Xavier said, as he approached her on the porch. “It’s not you we’re here for.”

A dozen emotions clambered for attention — fear at this being about her mother or grandparents, fear at what the regime knew. Or could this be Martin retaliating for her actions but taking it out against her family? That thought made Harriet’s stomach sink and dread fill her heart.

Harriet also fought the betrayal at his words, knowing Xavier had to be careful. As an Underground member and an Obsidian patrol officer, Xavier often straddled the line between rebellion and enforcement.

“Don’t give anything away,” he whispered as he took her by the elbow. They entered her home together, Xavier having to duck to not hit his head on the top of the doorway. “Harriet is here, sir.”

Alma May hung back, her presence like a hug at Harriet’s back.

But Harriet stopped short at the “sir” Xavier had addressed. Captain Johnson stood in the middle of her living room, her grandparents sitting on the couch and her mother in her grandfather’s easy chair.

“You will tell me everything you know about this, Ruth,” the captain said, not glancing up at Harriet’s entry.

Harriet blinked at the familiar — and rude — manner the captain addressed her mother. Sure, this man was technically her uncle, her father’s older brother, but he never came around. Never acted interested in their family. Never attended family meals or holiday gatherings. Of course, they knew each other, but he didn’t deserve to be on a first-name basis with her mother — or any of her family.

“I don’t know anything, Captain,” said her mother. “I assure you, I’ve never heard of any of this.”

Okay, so maybe not a first-name basis in her mother’s mind. It was just like Captain Johnson to assume that familiarity.

“We’re done, sir,” another patrolman emerged from the hallway leading to the three bedrooms and their one bathroom, a full box — presumably of their things — in his arms.

Harriet started toward the man, but Alma May’s hand on her elbow restrained her.

“Don’t do it,” she whispered, startling Harriet.

Xavier shuffled to block Harriet as the patrolman passed. The man was bent slightly backward, his arm muscles straining. Another patrolman followed, hefting another box.

How did they find two boxes of possibly traitorous items in her home? Harriet’s family kept no incriminating evidence here. Anything of any value stayed in a hiding place at HQ.

When she turned back around, Ruth was standing, a third patrolman securing her hands with zip ties, while the captain directed a fourth to finish up in the kitchen. Harriet’s gaze connected with her grandfather’s, and he shook his head at her, patting the couch next to him.

Xavier tugged on Harriet’s arm, then escorted her to the couch, a squeeze of her shoulder the only sign he saw her turmoil. Despite Xavier’s clear care for her, Harriet’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest and her eyes darted around the room, taking in everything and nothing at the same time. She felt like a child caught in the executioner’s sights. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

At the captain’s direction, the patrolmen exited the apartment, Xavier trailing at the back of the group. He flashed their “stay safe” signal before disappearing.

Grandpa Thompson let out a sigh and sank into the couch. “Don’t move, Harriet. Just wait.”

When the patrols didn’t return after a few minutes, Grandma Thompson rose, pushing her hands against her knees as they popped with the motion. “I guess I should get dinner ready.” She lifted a finger to her lips. “Will you join me, Harriet?”

“Yes, grandmother,” Harriet said, wondering what their plan was.

Did they all just sit here and act normal with her mother in patrol custody? Of course, the captain wouldn’t share the why behind her mother’s arrest. That went against patrol norms on so many levels.

Harriet was seething in a soup of conflicting emotions. Fear for her mother’s life. Fear for the rest of them. Anger at the regime for taking her mother away. Anger at her uncle’s continued betrayal of their family and addressing her mother by her first name, as if they were friends. And sadness that it was all happening again.

That evening, Harriet and her grandparents tried to act like nothing was wrong, that the heart of their family hadn’t been arrested. It all made Harriet want to bury herself in a pile of blankets and never come out again.

They ate, but Harriet picked at her food. Her grandfather searched for the new listening devices and her grandmother made a paste to clog them, while Harriet sat in the living room, staring off into space. Not even Alma May could rouse her, and her cousin eventually left for home right before curfew.

It all came down to the most logical conclusion. Someone had identified Harriet as a rebel who’d freed the camp — or worse, seen her outside the city peering into warehouse windows where she had no business being — and this was the response. To go after her mother.

One thing was for sure, no more risks. Ever. She would be the picture of regime compliance.

21

Marcos steadied the punching bag from its wild circle and resumed his drill. Jab-cross-hook-uppercut became a varied mess of punches, kicks, blocks, and spins. Sweat flew off his forehead, and he didn’t bother wiping it away.

Hearing Lin was involved with a militia, likely under Junior’s command, had left Marcos’s blood boiling. What he wouldn’t do to take his old nemesis from the labor camp out of the equation. But Lin wasn’t here now, was he?

So, Marcos took it out the only way that ever worked — in boxing.

“Oh, hermano!” His sister, Flavia, tackled him to the mat.

Marcos lay spread-eagle, then rolled his sister off him, scooping her into his arms and into a hug. She wrapped her arms around him, and her hair trailed across his unshaven face. He breathed her coconut scent in, every ounce of his anger bleeding out as he exhaled.

“You’re ok,” he said.

Flavia smacked his shoulder and stood, dragging him up next to her with a tug. “I told you I’d be fine.” She rolled her eyes and winked at Roberto, who must’ve brought Flavia to HQ.

“What about the boys at escuela? I heard —“

Flavia cut off Roberto. “Your meddling brother told you what he thought was true. I can handle a few hocicos de cerdos, despite what Esteban says.” Sometimes Roberto’s little brother Esteban told slightly exaggerated tales, so Marcos could see him blowing Flavia’s issues out of proportion.

Marcos examined his sister’s arms to make sure his father hadn’t repeated what he’d done to Marcos. But no bruises marred her perfect skin. He drew her into an embrace, then kissed both cheeks, the typical Havana greeting. She ended it with a poke into his stomach, making him double over with a laugh.

“Some things never change,” Flavia said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re still over-protective and full of muscles. Have you found any other girls to hover over yet? Oh! I bet you have. Except you stink.”

Marcos cursed at his traitorous blush.

Flavia howled with laughter. “All the chicas thought you were muy guapo in escuela. I’m so not surprised it continues here.”

Marcos’s blush deepened at her words. He rubbed at a spot on his neck, smearing his sweat across his skin, then drying his hand on his pants.

“Hi, everyone,” said Sam as he joined them.

“When did you get here?” Marcos held out a hand for an Ivory handshake, then wrapped an arm around Flavia’s shoulders.

“Just now. Who’s this? Your girlfriend?”

Flavia bent over double, her cackling laughter echoing through the training room and drawing all eyes to them. She added a slap on her knee before straightening up again.

“My sister, Flavia,” said Marcos. “Who evidently thought me having a girlfriend was hilarious.”

“Well, she’d be right,” Roberto said. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“He’s too busy for girls,” said Flavia. “But one day, he’s going to find one he can’t get out of his head. Then he’ll go to the ends of the earth for her. Just watch. I’m right.” She propped her hands on her hips and grinned at Marcos. “And when he does, I hope I’m there to make so much fun of him.”

Marcos groaned and palmed his face. “Roberto, did you have to bring her here?” Truth was, he’d take all the sibling ribbing in the world to have her where he could see her. Make sure she was okay.

“You asked me, if you remember correctly,” said Roberto. “Anyway, it’s time for wind sprints in the tunnels. You all game?”

“Wind sprints!” Flavia exclaimed with a fist pump into the air. “Let’s go, amigo!” She ran after Roberto, leaving Sam and Marcos staring after her.

“Whoa. I thought you were intense, amigo,” said Sam. “But she’s on a whole other level. Is she always like this?”

“Pretty much,” Marcos said.

The two walked out of the training room and were down the hallway before Sam knocked Marcos’s shoulder.

“Is she dating anyone?”

“Why do you ask? If she’s dating anyone, I’ll take him out and pummel him so good, he won’t walk for days.”

Sam laughed and raised his hands in the air. “Hold up! I was just asking. You have to know she’s got guys falling over her, same as girls do over you. It’s an honest question.”

“Right,” Marcos said, opening the door into the tunnels.

Sam caught the heavy metal door before it slammed into him, but Marcos didn’t care.

Marcos turned to face Sam, poking a finger into his friend’s chest. “Don’t touch her,” he said.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Sam backed up, hands raised in the air.

“What’s going on, Marc?” Flavia asked as she pushed between them, her back flush against Sam's chest as he blushed. “Are you being overprotective again? You know I can handle myself, right? You’ve been gone months, and I’ve done just fine.” She looked over her shoulder at Sam and winked, and his blush deepened. “I need someone to teach me how to shoot a gun. Aren’t you the patrol officer from Ivory?”

Flavia turned around, her back now against Marcos’s chest. He gripped her elbows.

“You know I can teach you that,” said Marcos.

“Of course you can, but you’re going to work on martial arts with me. Roberto said.”

Marcos huffed. “Roberto said, huh? What else did Roberto say?”

“He said I need to get either Sam or Jason to teach me how to shoot. They’re the best, evidently. No offense, Marc, but I want to be good. Sam’s here, Jason’s not. So, Sam gets the job.”

Sam’s shoulders shook with what Marcos knew was repressed laughter. Marcos threw up his hands and stepped away from his sister.

“Whatever,” said Marcos. “I can see I’m clearly on the losing end of this debate.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, hermano,” said Flavia, weaving her hand through his elbow and pulling him toward where Roberto stood. “You’re busy and I can only come certain times. You know, escuela and Mami and all.” She waved her free hand as if her living at home was no big deal. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe their father had learned that child abuse was a bad thing. Marcos had a hard time believing Hector Alvarez had changed or wouldn’t eventually try to mold Flavia into his carbon copy.

“Alright, form up across the starting line,” yelled Roberto.

He gave the count and dropped his arm.

Marcos kept pace with Flavia during the entire sprint, touching the furthest black line and heading back toward the start just ahead of her. She caught him on the next set, passing him with a shout at the finish. That she’d gotten even faster since his imprisonment astonished Marcos. Her futbol coach must be pleased with her speed.

“She’s a beast, man,” said Sam, his hands on his knees and sweat pouring off his patrol-regulation short hair. “Teaching her how to shoot is going to be fun. I bet she hits the target in her first go.”

Marcos frowned at Sam, but Sam held out his hand. “I heard you loud and clear. She’s off-limits. I respect that and wasn’t hinting at dating her or anything. She’s too young for any of that. But I know an outstanding student when I see one, and your sister is going to advance through the Underground ranks quickly. Mark my words.”

He’d debated it long enough. Flavia needed the Underground as much as he had. Marcos hadn’t known about the rebel movement until he’d landed himself in a labor camp. He could and would do better for his sister.

Flavia didn’t appreciate her own strength and her capabilities. She had innocent dreams of being a teacher and raising a family, but would those be enough for her once she experienced the Underground? Marcos doubted it and knew deep down he’d changed the trajectory of his sister’s life by insisting she come to HQ.

22

Rose awoke to darkness, the air still with the silence only the middle of the night contained. She breathed in and out.

Then marveled that she’d survived Junior’s torture. And not just one method, but several. Rose had not spoken a word. Good thing Tío had warned her about keeping her secrets, no matter what.

She rolled onto her stomach, taking stock of her body. Everything hurt. Literally everything.

She pressed against the cold floor to sit, stretching and orienting herself. Her shirt remained tucked into her underwear, despite all she’d endured. She untucked it, retrieving the long hairpin Carrie had shoved down Rose’s shirt during their little girl talk. At least someone had figured out how to play Junior. But was Carrie in the Underground or up to her own thing?

Shaking her head — Rose would never figure Carrie out — she steeled herself for what she’d have to do. She had no time to waste. This gift had an expiration date.

Rose bent the hairpin at its joint back and forth until it snapped, creating two pins. It would have to work. Then she unlaced her tennis shoes sitting in the corner, still shocked the guards hadn’t taken them — and their dangerous laces — when she had arrived. At least the guards had removed her shoes to torture her, not wanting her to wear the electricity-grounding, rubber-soled tennis shoes. They were also her only dry possessions.

Rose crawled to the door and worked the pins into the old-style lock, thankful for Carrie sharing both her lock-picking knowledge all those years ago and the hairpin earlier tonight.

She felt the hairpins slide into place and turned the lock, praying someone had recently oiled the door hinges as she turned the knob. A lone guard snored, his chin resting on his chest, and his body pitched slightly forward.

Rose wrapped the shoelace around his throat and tightened the noose. He startled and grabbed at the shoelace, but his fingers were too thick to fit underneath. He struggled, kicking out and thrashing about. Rose threw her body onto his back, forcing him to the floor. She tightened the laces, and his weight slackened. Rose felt for a carotid pulse and sighed in relief. He was only knocked out, not dead.

She extracted a set of keys from his pocket and removed his hip holster with a patrol-issue revolver — he hadn’t even thought to use it — then dragged the guard into her former prison and locked the door.

She tucked her shoelace and the guard’s keys into her pocket. No time for properly fastened shoes now. She drew the revolver, checking to see how many rounds she had to work with, then crept down the stairs, the metal supports groaning against her weight. She’d fight her way out of this place if she had to, but she preferred to leave with no one the wiser.

Once she reached the main warehouse area, a deafening silence calmed her.

She was alone.

Rose catalogued the pallets of goods as she passed through the open area. They had everything they needed to house an army here, but the place was deserted. Was Junior biding his time, or was this warehouse merely a storage and training location? It had felt like a graduation celebration around here earlier — with the loud music, indistinct conversations, and the staircase groaning under many bodies. Nothing made sense to her.

She passed through a thick plastic curtain and into a pitch-black room. Rose stretched her arms out, not wanting to walk into something. Letting her eyes adjust, Rose realized she stood in a hallway instead of inside another room.

She aimed at the thin strip of barely visible light at the end of a hallway, running her hand along the wall as a guide. Rose paused at the exit, listening for sounds of another guard. Had Junior only stationed the one guard at her door? That seemed short-sighted, but perhaps that was Carrie’s doing and not Junior’s?

Shaking off her thoughts, Rose pushed the door open and stumbled into the starlit night. No guard in sight. She sprinted down the loading dock and across a gravel lot toward a line of shrubs and trees. She leaped into the tree line, bare shrub branches cutting her hands and face. Extending her arms in front of her, Rose stumbled through the trees into the night, then dropped the key into a pile of fallen leaves and winter-dead bushes.

She emerged on the other side of the woods into the rubble of the abandoned city.

Rose sat on the broken pavement, a quiet laugh bubbling out at the surrounding scene. She’d escaped, and no one had come after her.

Rose laced her shoes, then sped up to a jog. She didn’t care where she went, as long as it was away from here. The clock ticked on the information she’d learned, and Rose couldn’t afford to get caught again.

Rose took off in a general northerly direction, away from the city. Returning to Little Asia was out of the question, especially since the gate guards would never let her back in and she’d end up in a patrol holding cell, being interrogated and tortured — again.

No, thank you.

She fell into a peaceful rhythm of shoes hitting the pavement, determined to put as much distance as possible between her and her former prison.

***

Rose awoke to voices outside the broken kitchen window in the living room where she slept. The home had been trashed long ago, the doors into bedrooms and closets hanging off of their hinges and the kitchen cabinets ransacked. There was nothing of interest in this house except Rose, who lay curled up in front of a bookshelf, moldy cushions piled high around her for warmth. She’d been on the run for days, wandering the abandoned city, searching homes for food or water, literally anything. But, so far, she’d found nothing. Drinking from small streams and creeks had been her only water source, and she wondered how long she could do that before some water-born illness struck her unconscious.

Rose shivered and listened as the voices trailed off. What had they said that had awakened her? She groaned internally. They’d said her name.

But how did Junior’s thugs know where she was?

She was far away from his warehouse, and Rose had made sure not to leave a trail.

Had they inserted a tracker on her when she’d blacked out? She snorted. Of course they had. That was right up Junior’s alley.

She patted down her clothing, still hidden under the cushions, then felt along her skin for any broken areas. Nothing.

Her shoes? Could they have inserted a tracking chip inside her shoes?

She lifted the cushions one-at-a-time and set them aside, careful not to make even a whisper of noise.

She removed her shoes and examined them inside and out. Nothing.

She checked the seams along her sweatshirt. Nothing.

Then how?

Rose ran her fingers through her hair and removed the ponytail holder, surveying it. Also nothing.

At least she’d managed a few hours of sleep. But if she’d heard one set of thugs, more would be combing the area. Which meant she needed to get out of here fast before they tightened the net around her.

Rose stood, and her stomach growled. It was a loud gurgle that if anyone were close by, they would’ve surely heard. This was not the time for her hunger to make itself known. What she wouldn’t do for a rations bar — or better yet, cold enchiladas.

She crept to the back kitchen door, still slightly ajar from where she’d entered and couldn’t close it afterward, and peeked outside. The day was bright, the sunshine nearly blinding after the relative darkness of her cushion pile. She shaded her eyes and scanned the horizon. Homes stood at regular intervals with weedy lawns in between. No fences and very few trees.

How would Rose escape without someone seeing her?

She stretched her thighs and back. She’d have to be ready to sprint.

Rose ventured out of the two-story home and bolted for the home immediately behind it. She slammed into the brick wall at the side of the house and slowed her breath. Being out in the open, even if the weeds were almost as tall as her, made her back itch. Thankfully, no one had seen her and there were no shouts of pursuit. She stayed in the home’s slight shadow and walked to the front. Peering around the edge, she watched as a pair of black-clad men rounded the corner and disappeared down an intersecting street.

How many thugs searched this neighborhood for her? And why couldn’t they track her exact location? That made little sense.

Rose darted across the street and into the shadows of the next home, and in this way, made it several more blocks. Voices echoed down the street, and she threw herself through an open door and into a dark kitchen, crouching beneath the intact cabinetry and appliances.

“Why can’t we get her exact location?” one man asked.

Another replied, “You know the only way we get it in the first place is from someone in Martinsburg. The boss doesn’t want to tip them off something is seriously wrong down here. That they need to send investigators to Queenstown.”

“That would be bad. But we’re stuck…” the first man’s voice trailed off.

Martinsburg. Martinsburg.

Rose tapped her forehead, and the dots connected.

They tracked her chip. The same one Rose used to get into market and pick up rations. The same one the patrols scanned for ID check.

Which meant if she removed her chip, they could no longer track her.

She had to get her chip out. Now.

Rose rammed open the drawer above her head and winced. Way too loud. She froze and counted to ten. Nothing. No shouts of pursuit and no voices returning.

She rifled through the drawer, looking for anything sharp enough to remove her chip.

It was just a bunch of junk. She searched the other drawers and found nothing. Clearly, this house had been ransacked.

Which meant she needed to keep moving. Rose didn’t know how big their search area was, but if she got outside of it, she could slow down and search more thoroughly.

She crept back out the kitchen door, curving around the home, and continued in the same direction. By the position of the sun, she guessed she headed northwest. She worked her way to the border of the neighborhood she’d been in, crossed a creek — after drinking her fill from the most-likely contaminated water — and entered a neighborhood with palatial homes. Some were three stories and took up the space of two or three homes that were in the other neighborhood. If she had been trying to survive a war and were starving, she would’ve come to this neighborhood first.

So Rose did the smart thing and sprinted through the area as fast as she safely could. When she entered a neighborhood of much smaller homes, all identical twins, Rose breathed a sigh of relief. She’d find something sharp here, even if she had to search in unusual locations.

She picked a home at random and entered the one-story home with peeling paint and a sagging roof. Rose placed each step slowly, careful not to create unnecessary noise. She had searched the kitchen, not finding anything, until a search of the couch cushions yielded a crushed bar. The writing on it said “granola,” which Rose had never heard of.

Could it be safe to eat?

She opened it, and the contents disintegrated in her hands, flowing out and onto the ratty carpet.

Nope. Not safe.

She wiped her hands on her jeans and walked back toward the bedrooms.

She opened the first door to a child’s room — the pink paint and crib standing against one wall screamed "infant." Rose searched every drawer, finding only a pair of miniature nail clippers. She pocketed them, not thinking they’d work, but unwilling to leave anything useful behind.

In the largest bathroom, Rose found a rusty pair of tweezers in the bottom drawer. Also, not useful for cutting skin, but very useful to remove her chip once she’d made the cut.

She proceeded to the next house on the block. If she had to search house-to-house all day, then so be it.

23

Harriet exhaled.

She desperately needed a distraction. Her overnight medic shift had been completely normal. And boring.

There were no mad dashes through the city to a factory accident that should’ve never happened; no broken bones, broken hearts, or broken lives.

Just Harriet trying not to worry about her mother, who was still in an Obsidian patrols lockup. Her grandfather had tried to visit Ruth a few days back, but he'd been turned away.

Just Harriet staring at the ceiling and avoiding Dez.

Harriet honestly didn’t have the capacity to deal with Dez tonight.

Yet he kept trailing her around the tiny offices. Into the bunk room, then out. Into the kitchen, then out. Past the radio room and Dara’s office to sit along the wall in the hallway with her.

“What do you want?” she asked, her head in her hands.

Dara had called Dez being on this shift with her “unavoidable.” But she'd promised not to schedule Harriet with Dez, and this was why. He wouldn’t leave her alone, even on an emergency call.

“Look, I know you’re mad at me for just showing up at HQ,” Dez said, and Harriet’s eyes flew to the camera right over their heads.

She tossed him a look and lifted a finger to her lips. Did he want to get them both arrested? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I was only trying to protect you.”

Harriet rolled her eyes. She wished Alma May were here to tell him what for. He deserved it. Protect her? How could anyone protect Harriet from a murderous patrol captain who had her mother in lockup?

“You can think what you want, but I know patrols have been on your tail constantly. If they saw you head into the tunnels, I’d be there to distract them.”

“Dez, just leave it alone. I don’t know what tunnels you’re talking about, so you distracting anyone is unnecessary. Besides, there’s nothing you can do about patrols following me, even if the captain is your best buddy. And please leave me alone.” Harriet allowed her gaze to drift to the camera again. Did Dez want patrols to hear their every word? Was this some kind of entrapment scheme? She stood and walked away from him.

“I know about your mom’s arrest.”

She stopped at the door into the hallway and narrowed her eyes at him. “How? Who told you? Did the rec staff gossip about her?”

He shrugged. “X did.” Dez walked to where she stood, Harriet barely noticing his nearness.

Xavier. She’d kill him for blabbing their family’s business. She had enough worries, and adding gossip to the pile made her want to collapse in exhaustion. Harriet dreaded the false concern of her neighbors and their area’s residents’ stares. They’d whisper for sure, and she didn’t want to hear it.

“I think you shouldn’t go to HQ anymore, Harriet,” Dez whispered, a hand on her shoulder.

Harriet scooted away from him, letting his hand fall to the floor. “I don’t think you get a say in anything I do.” Never mind, that’s what Harriet had already decided.

The front door of the medic offices flew open, and the Obsidian patrols captain strode into the hallway, two other patrol officers flanking him.

Her heart rate sped up, and Harriet ducked her head as Captain Johnson passed. One officer tugged Dez to join them, and Harriet gaped after the four men as they kicked Dara out of her office.

Dara strode out with her hands on her hips. One of the other officers headed toward the bunk room.

“Kingston,” the man called into the bunk room.

“Yes sir,” her fellow medic said. Kingston was the father of three rambunctious boys, who all played hoops on their various grade-level teams. Harriet had treated the seven-year-old Jonte for a broken arm after he’d tried to imitate a move he’d seen Dez pull off. And in their conversation, Harriet had realized Dez and the captain were not only acquaintances, but close enough to attend functions together.

She narrowed her gaze at Dara’s office door as the patrolman closed it behind Kingston.

Dara yanked on her arm and tugged Harriet outside. “Not in here.”

Once they were outside in the bright moonlight, Harriet released her clenched fists. “How dare he?”

“Who? The captain? Of course he dares. He’s the patrol captain. He can go anywhere.”

“I mean Dez,” Harriet said. “Clearly, he’s all buddy-buddy with the captain. And that’s probably why I’m being tailed so closely, and why my mom was arrested. He has it out for us.”

“Harriet, if that’s the case, you must stop whatever you’re doing that brings their eyes on you. What’s going on?”

Harriet shook her head and turned away from Dara. “You wouldn’t understand if I explained it all. But long story short, the captain is investigating pallets of goods missing or stolen from the distro and the market. Or so I heard from a friend inside patrols. I definitely had nothing to do with it, but I could see why they’d think my mom might know something.” She swung back to Dara. “But she’s not involved. Where would she put all that? And why would she take it? We share everything we have with others facing hard times. She takes care of the entire area’s kids. Why would she steal?” Harriet lifted her arms, then dropped them to her sides. “And what is Dez up to? Is this some scheme to get me to date him, because it’s ridiculous, if that’s what he’s doing.”

Dara frowned. “I’m sorry, I forgot about the whole Dez thing. It’d been weeks since anything happened, so I figured he’d given up.” Dara laid a hand on Harriet’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “But know this. If the captain thinks you’re up to something, he won’t stop until he’s found that “something” out.” She used air quotes around the word.

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

“I know you know. But clearly you needed a reminder.” Dara released Harriet’s shoulder. “Let’s get back inside before they think we need investigating.”

Harriet respected Dara for not saying anything about her mom having been arrested earlier. She’d learned early in life not to talk about citizens who were under patrols investigation, or else you’d land in their same situation. But if felt good, almost comforting, to know her supervisor was not only aware of their family’s predicament, but worried about Harriet’s safety.

Harriet grimaced, her lips pursing. “Yeah, let’s not give him any more reason to tail me all over Obsidian.”

Worry and grief over possibly never seeing her mother again filled Harriet’s heart, and she dragged herself back inside the medic offices, bypassing Dara’s office without a sideways glance.

Harriet felt like wherever she went, there the Obsidian patrols captain was. Would she ever be able to live her life outside of his long shadow? She doubted it. Harriet lay down in her bunk and closed her eyes, but the claustrophobic, hunted feelings only grew. She was stuck inside the walls of Obsidian, her mother still in patrol custody for a crime she didn’t commit, and now her family’s greatest enemy had invaded Harriet’s one remaining sanctuary — the medics.

24

Rose worked her way methodically down the block, always keeping one ear tuned to her environment while she searched. After rifling through the remnants of other peoples’ lives for almost five hours, she was ready to give up and move on. Stay ahead of the thugs, since clearly they couldn’t ask for position updates too often.

She stared at the last home on the next block and weighed her options.

The home’s exterior had definitely seen better days. Even before the Great Civil War, Rose doubted this home had been well cared for. After four decades of neglect, though? It was a hot mess. At least from the outside. The roof had partially caved in, a tree growing out of the space. Not a single window was intact. Some had pinpoint holes with tape around them; others had plyboard covers nailed into place instead of glass. The shutters had mostly fallen off, and weeds had overtaken grass.

But a place like this might not have been ransacked. Against her firmest desire not to explore such a pit, Rose opened the front door and immediately ducked when something flew right at her. Bats.

She shivered, but decided this place may actually have a sharp object or two.

Inside was just as sorry as the outside.

Lifting a couch cushion, squeals made her jump, tossing the cushion away to reveal a tangled mouse nest. The mice scurried off, disappearing into the ragged couch backing. Rose moved on and crunched glass underfoot. Bending down, she picked the remnants of a drinking glass out of her shoe treads and shook her head. What a mess.

Wasting no more time, Rose headed to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets. One long drawer right next to the stove held the motherlode — four large knives, mixed in with assorted cutlery. Rose grabbed the largest knife and ran to the bathroom.

Rifling through the cabinets, she finally found a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Rose poured the liquid over the knife and prayed the astringent hadn't gone bad. Otherwise, she would get some awful illness from the decades-old knife. Its blade was clean and somehow hadn’t rusted, but still Rose didn’t trust it.

Feeling along her wrist for the telltale bump, Rose positioned the knife with her right hand and pressed the tip into her skin. She yelped at the blood now cascading out of her arm and tears pooled in her eyes. Rose poured rubbing alcohol over the tweezers and shook them off, wincing when the liquid contacted her tender flesh. She dug around until the tweezers met the edge of the chip, then tugged hard. The tweezers slipped off the chip, and Rose cursed creatively.

She had to see. Rose took a deep breath and poured the rubbing alcohol straight into her arm, flinging her arm and hopping back and forth between each foot. She bit on the knife’s handle and shook her head to clear the tears.

Rose took another deep breath and, this time, she could see. She grabbed her ID chip at its thickest part and tugged even harder.

The chip tore loose from her arm, and Rose poured the rest of the bottle into the wound. Tears blinded her, but this time, she let them. She breathed deeply in and out, telling her heart rate to calm down already.

The chip was out.

Rose pinned it under her shoe for leverage and broke the chip into little bits, casting them aside.

Now, no one, not even the mighty Supreme Commander Martin, could track Rose.

She knew she had to move, though. The last location would be exactly where she stood, and eventually Junior would ask for an update.

Let him find the chip’s remnants, but she couldn’t allow him to find her.

She kept the knife in hand and ran into the nearest bedroom. She tossed the sheets off the bed and cut a strip the entire length from the foot of the sheet. No telling what these sheets had seen, but maybe the bottom wasn’t that dirty. Or so Rose hoped.

Rose wrapped the sheet strip around her wrist and tucked the end underneath the wrapped portion. It would have to be enough.

The sun was sinking below the horizon when she raced out of the back door and into the dwindling twilight, the knife still clutched in her right hand. It was time to put as many miles between her and her ID chip’s last tracking location as possible.

***

Dawn broke over the ruins of the old city, and Rose collapsed in exhaustion on a pile of bricks and weeds. She wiped the sweat from her forehead.

There was no doubt in her mind.

She was lost.

But at least she no longer had Junior’s thugs trailing her.

And now, the blocks of destroyed homes and looted businesses stretched as far as she could see in every direction. How in Martin’s macrocosm would she ever find the Underground entrance in all this? She could wander for days, weeks even, and never stumble upon it.

She had wandered for days already.

Rose stood, then doubled over to stretch her legs. She was thirsty, hungry, and tired. Not necessarily in that order. She’d slaked her thirst in various creeks and streams, and so far, hadn’t suffered the consequences. Miraculously. She knew enough biology to fear for her gut health.

With a groan, she stood, the rising sun warming her right cheek. North. She’d go north until she left the city. Then she’d find QT3. With that landmark, she could navigate back to the Underground entrance.

Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier?

Hours later, the sun baking her exposed skin, Rose left the old city’s ruins for weedy fields. She hadn’t intersected with any repaired road, let alone the one paved one she’d recognize on sight. She entered yet another abandoned neighborhood and meandered along the curving streets. The homes were carbon copies, the only difference the looted, decaying contents spilled onto the overgrown front lawns. Suitcases, furniture, even waterlogged and disintegrating books mingled in a sad story of the prior owner’s lives.

Rose picked up a book, and its once-sturdy hardcover fell apart in her hands. She tossed it aside, along with the trash of a long-dead generation of occupants. Could she risk disease — or death — for any food inside? Forty-five years was a long time. Did canned goods survive that long?

Rose shuddered at the thought of the bacteria festering inside four-decades old cans. That was a hard pass.

Not that she’d found a single canned good in any home she’d searched so far.

She trudged along the street, startling when she recognized the home at the end of the block, its backyard disappearing into a thickly wooded area. Could it be?

Rose sprinted into the same home she and Harriet had sheltered inside weeks ago, noting the stray and very out-of-place Martin regime rations bar wrapper on the floor in the kitchen before flying out the back door and into the woods. She knew exactly where she was. Finally.

Midway into the darkest part of the woods, Rose wrinkled her nose and peered through the trees at the sound of an engine.

No, make that many engines. Loud engines.

She looked into the sky and immediately flew to the ground, her hands covering her head and her entire body quivering.

They’d sent the air force to catch her.

But how could Martin track her without her ID chip? Had Junior’s thugs actually inserted another tracking chip, and she’d not found it?

Booms shook the earth, and Rose tried to melt into the soft ground. Terror filled her heart.

The regime’s hover planes dropped bomb after bomb, and Rose expected to die any second.

But the explosions steadily grew more distant. Hours passed, the explosions still echoing, but further out now.

Rose lifted her head, and the awful sulfurous smell of exploded munitions assaulted her nostrils.

She lifted her sweatshirt to cover her mouth, nearly choking.

Fire flickered through every field, as if someone took a blowtorch to the ground. The plants were gone.

She darted to her feet and scanned the sky.

The hover planes were also gone. The noontime sun blazed down on a silent, torched labor camp. Smoke rose from every single field. And Rose knew in an instant the Martin regime had learned they’d set QT3 free.

This was their answer.

Destroy the labor camps.

She wondered how many had perished in the two other labor camps outside Queenstown. Surely that’s where the hover planes went after thoroughly decimated QT3.

Rose stepped over the buckled chain link fence, its posts and barbed wire now melted into the ground. Her tennis shoes grew warm, and Rose retreated with a yelp and a jump over the fence. Even the ground was on fire.

The animals.

The regime wouldn’t have killed the pigs and chickens. Or would they have?

Rose snorted. Of course they would. But she needed to check on them, just in case any had survived. She backtracked through the woods and onto the paved road leading into the south gate, jogging to get out of the open as soon as possible.

Rose entered the former labor camp via the sally port on the south gate, the larger vehicle entrance blocked from the inside. She looked over her shoulder, sure that someone watched her every step.

Impossible.

She looked toward the guard shack, which lay in smoking ruins, and noticed the camera pieces on the ground. She shook off her unease.

Rose jogged down the dirt road past the smoking fields in the camp’s periphery. She passed burned field after burned field until she reached what should’ve been the director’s office. She stared at the tumble of concrete block and ash, instantly knowing nothing had survived the hover planes’ onslaught.

Was Queenstown next?

Her heart plummeted to her feet.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Rose sprinted out of the labor camp’s south gate, navigating to the Underground entrance faster than she’d ever run. When the first sentries came into view, she dropped her hands to her knees to catch her breath.

“Announce yourself!” a voice called out. A bullet struck the ground a few feet in front of Rose.

“The hog goes by the lazy bush,” she yelled, following that up with the safe messenger call and hand signal.

A female voice whistled the reply, and Rose lunged forward into Darcy’s arms.

“Walls’ balls, Rose! Where did you come from? And how? I heard you’d been taken hostage or kidnapped or whatever,” Darcy hugged Rose, then held her at arm’s length. Rose must stink worse than the guys after wind sprints, sparring, and rolling in the mud. Not that she’d ever seen Jason or Marcos rolling in the mud, but it would be stinky, for sure.

Somehow, Darcy hadn’t backed away, but kept examining her. Maybe everyone got stinky in the camp? “And what did you do to your arm? You’re a mess. And that’s blood. Let’s get you to Abuela. She’ll know what to do.” Darcy rolled her eyes.

“I cut out my chip,” said Rose, not bothering to answer Darcy’s other questions.

Darcy wrapped an arm around Rose’s shoulders, guiding her through alleyways and across destroyed streets to the warehouse entrance to the Underground.

The large warehouse space was barren, and Rose breathed out.

“Where is everyone?”

“Tunnels,” said Darcy. “Why?”

Martin was coming for them, but she wouldn’t alarm Darcy yet.

They descended the stairs into the tunnels, the cool air soothing Rose’s frayed nerves. She tugged on Darcy’s arm to go faster.

When they turned the corner toward HQ, Rose broke into a sprint.

She rammed into Abuela, sobs soaking the woman’s shoulder.

“Rose,” Abuela said. “You escaped. Gloria Dios.” The older woman wrapped her into a tight hug, then turned her toward HQ. “And I see you've removed your chip. Let’s get you a shower and food. We'll take care of her from here,” Abuela said to Darcy as the younger woman waved her goodbye.

“Abuela, we have to, I don’t know what, but this isn’t safe enough,” said Rose. “The camp — it’s destroyed. Firebombed. Martin knows we liberated his camp. He’ll find us. We’re next. We need to remove everyone’s chips. The regime… they can track us. Even here.”

Abuela’s eyes widened as Rose spoke, but then she simply nodded. “Child, we know.” Abuela lifted her arm where a chip would reside, and Rose saw the still-healing scar. “We removed everyone’s chips weeks ago, before you were taken. But what happened to you? We are fine, but you don’t look so good, Mija.” Abuela palmed Rose’s cheek, and warmth spread through her. It had been so long since someone had touched Rose with anything but violence or intent to harm. She pressed her face into Abuela’s hand.

“Junior tortured me and I didn’t give anything up,” said Rose, her voice almost a whisper. “But QT3 is gone. Every bit of it.”

Abuela frowned. “Hover planes?” At Rose’s nod, she grabbed a nearby camp refugee. “Check with our sentries. Rose says hover planes dropped bombs about ten miles away onto the camps. That’s what the explosions we heard were all about. But the sentries need to take cover in case the hover planes are searching the area.”

Moses strode up and grabbed Rose into a tight hug.

“Moses, it’s awful,” she whispered. “I saw the hover planes firebomb QT3. The whole thing is burned and destroyed.”

Moses bent down to look her in the eye. “Are you okay, though? Was it Junior?” At Rose’s nod, his jaw clenched. “Are you hurt?”

“Not badly. I’ve been on the run for days. Took my chip out. Dodged his thugs. They were searching for me. I found some stuff out you need to know.”

Moses nodded. “Are we in danger here?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Then your information will have to wait. We need to widen our perimeter and send scouts out. We can’t let the regime just walk up to our safe place,” Moses said, passing Rose back to Abuela. “Or fly up.”

Moses gave Abuela a peck on the lips, making Rose blush. “Take care of her. She needs a mother, but a grandmother will have to suffice.”

“Michael,” he yelled above the chaos of lunch. “Assemble our team now.”

“Ayes,” echoed down the stairs and into the cement tunnel.

Abuela smiled at Rose. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up and some hot food into your belly. Have you ever had enchiladas? I think I’ll kick everyone out of the kitchen and feed you, Mija.”

She was finally safe.

“Abuela,” Rose whispered right before she collapsed into the older woman’s arms.

25

He had to see it with his own eyes. They’d cowered in terror at the distant explosions, convinced Martin’s army was coming for the Underground. Then Rose had miraculously returned after escaping her captors. She had witnessed the destruction first-hand. Now Marcos needed to see what Martin had done to his own labor camp, to make peace with his own roiling emotions.

Marcos emerged from the woods in the late afternoon sun and took in the still-smoking grounds of the former labor camp. QT3 — and the other two camps outside Queenstown — had been decimated by Martin’s bombs.

And for what? To hide the evidence? To punish Queenstown for freeing one labor camp’s prisoners by sacrificing the prisoners at two more camps? Marcos nearly wept at all the death and destruction.

He stared toward those distant twin plumes of smoke, hands clenching and unclenching. What Marcos wouldn’t do for a punching bag right about now. Thousands. It had to be thousands of innocent prisoners — and not so innocent guards — in those two camps. Dead. All of them.

It was senseless murder. Did Martin think international observers lingered inside Queenstown, ready to call him out for having illegal labor camps? The news would’ve broken by now on that.

No. Martin didn’t want anyone else to find the camps. Protecting his own hide.

Marcos screamed into the air, the sound bouncing off nothing but destruction.

He walked through the open fields; the crops withered like they’d been roasted in an oven for far too long. The gentle soybean plants, green with life a few weeks ago and full of the promise of feeding a city, were now charred bits and stumps, ash scattered in between. Had soldiers walked through here and torched each row, ensuring no viable crops remained? That’s what it looked like.

Or they had blow torch attachments on the hover planes. Maybe that was more likely. Faster. More efficient.

It all felt vindictive to Marcos. As if Martin were wringing his hands in his palace in Martinsburg, saying, “if I can’t control this, then ‘they’ won’t have it.” Who “they” were, Marcos didn’t know. Except one food source for the hundreds of refugees sheltering inside the tunnels had burned to a crisp.

Marcos expected the buildings to be bombed to dust, but he hadn’t expected to see the hovels in the same (if not worse) state. Aluminum roofs were charred and bent, some even melted and then hardened into amorphous blobs on the ground. The former wood structures and flimsy canvas doors all turned to ash, as if the campfires had run amok here. But they hadn’t.

He used the neck of his t-shirt to wipe his cheeks and ventured toward the now-destroyed and stench-filled kennels and pig sties. Marcos seethed with rage at the violence against innocent animals.

Even the kitchen garden had gone up in flames, a yawning black pit at its center.

Marcos rotated slowly and let the destruction fill him with resolve.

It was time to confront the powers that be. First in their city. Then in their nation.

He’d had it with toeing the line and working around the margins of their society; hiding in plain sight in an abandoned warehouse. How long until Martin figured out where they’d escaped to and sent his bombs and flames after them?

Marcos inhaled deeply in and exhaled out slowly.

First things first: they had to figure out what was happening in that other no-longer-abandoned warehouse, the one that pumped with music and life. It was time for an action plan.

Marcos took off down the only paved road in sight at an easy lope, thoughts swirling in his mind.

Should they attack the militia warehouse head-on? Jason and Sam had advocated for bringing in the Ivory patrols captain. Although Foster was a regime employee, a man who’d committed to an oath to execute Martin’s orders, he seemed more dedicated to the laws of the FRA than the man who’d made them. Marcos felt sure Foster would stop Junior and Britwell from whatever scheme they’d hatched.

But did the Underground have enough fighters with the addition of the camp’s freed operatives if the patrols didn’t help? No, they needed the patrols. At least some portion. Patrol officers also had better training in firearms and tactics.

He was even with the destroyed south gate house when a buzzing sound filled the air. He spun to see a hover plane in the distance and dove into the ditch outside the gate, praying they didn’t have heat-sensing technology. Or else he was toast. Literally.

Marcos held his breath as the hover plane crisscrossed the camp, as if to make sure everything was destroyed. When it lifted high into the air and jetted north, Marcos let out a long exhale.

He had to get out of here before another came whizzing by.

The miles evaporated, as the sun inched its way toward the horizon. When Marcos saw the early sentries well outside their normal perimeter lurking in the shadows, he whistled the two-note “safe messenger” tone, awaiting their reply before emerging.

They greeted him with tight smiles and slight waves, melting back into the shadows and allowing him to pass. Everyone was on high alert today — and for good reason.

Once he was inside the now-empty warehouse, Marcos jogged through the tunnels into HQ. Even the group of kids he passed, including the usually exuberant Sharlyn, were playing a quiet game.

“She’s still gone,” Darcy said to Jason as Marcos entered the training room and joined them, instinctively knowing the two talked about Harriet. “Abuela tried sending a message to Ruth but there’s no response,” Darcy continued. “She's worried.”

“Has Xavier been here? Maybe he knows something,” Marcos interjected. He’d not seen Harriet since they’d spied on the militia warehouse. Had that night spooked her so badly she’d quit? That wasn’t like his brave friend. He greeted Jason with their usual Obsidian handshake, his friend ending in the Havana amigo hug.

Darcy shook her head. “And Rose is still out. I don’t think a hover plane could wake her up.”

Marcos cringed at her comparison, but didn’t dare tell her what he’d seen. “What did she say again? Tell me everything.”

Darcy related how Rose had been tortured and Rose’s suspicions about Martin knowing the freed laborers were hiding out in the ruined city. “Good thing we took everyone’s chips out already. That’s one less thing to worry about.”

Jason hummed and propped his chin into his palm. “Do we have any evidence that Martin or his people know where we are?”

“Nothing that we can tell,” she said. “This whole thing is a mess.”

“At least the tunnels are wide. Sort of,” said Marcos.

“Looks like wind sprints are a thing of the past,” said Jason, snapping his fingers in a swinging motion.

“Some people will be happy about that.” Marcos’s thoughts turned to Harriet again. Even though she hated sprinting, she was still fast.

“Where have you been, amigo?” Jason asked Marcos.

“Um,” he knocked his feet together, knowing both of his friends would hit the ceiling. “I went out to the camp. Had to see it for myself. Even the animals are dead.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead. Darcy smacked him on the shoulder.

“What were you thinking?” she raised her voice at him. “You could’ve been caught or killed, or worse, tailed back here!”

“But I wasn’t,” said Marcos. “Everything Rose said was true. Also, they destroyed the other two camps. That’s a lot of people killed. I hope Martin’s conscience weighs a ton.” Marcos didn’t know any of the prisoners in the other two camps who’d perished in the firebombs, but that didn’t stop him from feeling grief deep in his bones.

“This is nuts,” Jason said. “We’ve got to end this whole drama Junior has going on. Are you sure the hover planes were under Martin’s control? I could see Junior ordering the camps destroyed just to keep Queenstown from freeing the other two. Solely out of spite.”

“Hmm,” said Marcos. Of course, he hadn’t considered that option.

“Can we go wake Rose up? I want to ask her about my father. Now that the other camps are destroyed, we need to stop Junior before we’re next.” Jason ran out of the training room and into the hallway.

Marcos chased after him, clamping a hand onto Jason’s shoulder before he could knock on the women’s dormitory. Marcos understood why Jason thought Junior had to be responsible for the camps’ destruction, but Marcos thought it more likely that Martin had discovered the breach and then destroyed the evidence of his treaty violation.

Darcy yelled after them, running to catch up. “Not so fast. Let her sleep. Junior tortured her, evidently. She’s exhausted.”

“But—”

Darcy wedged herself in between Jason and the doorway. “It’ll have to wait.”

“If Junior tortured her, then my dad — no Britwell, I’m not calling him my father any longer — must’ve been there, too. Where else would he be?” Jason rubbed at his face and turned toward Marcos. “I just wish you’d seen him that night. It would make everything cut and dried. We could get Foster involved. Arrest Junior and Britwell.”

Marcos wondered if Jason was angry at himself for slipping and calling Hudson his dad. It was true, but Marcos got it. Couldn’t Jason see this entire situation was far more delicate than that?

Marcos opened his mouth, but Jason cut him off. “But Marc, if she was being held at the warehouse we staked out, that would give us the ammunition to go to Foster, regardless of whether we have other proof of Hudson Britwell’s involvement.”

Marcos stroked his chin and the thready stubble there. “I think it’s not only possible, but likely she was held at that warehouse. Because why would there be two secret militia locations outside the city — plus us? That’s a lot of rebellion, and I’d think Martin would figure out at least one and destroy them. Then there’s arresting a member of Martin’s cabinet. We have to tread very carefully here.”

Jason ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “We were right there. I guess I’ll have to wait to talk with her. I just need to see her.”

Marcos examined his friend. Why was he so desperate to talk to Rose, only to hear her confirm Junior and Britwell had been the ones behind her kidnapping, torture, and general deprivation?

Could it be? Nah. Marcos shook off his musings. According to Harriet, those two had been at each other’s throats only a few weeks ago, Rose sparring with Jason out of anger and distrust. No way Jason had any feelings beyond friendship for Rose. Right?

Either way, they would not solve this in the hallway.

“Let’s grab some dinner,” Marcos said, dropping his arm around Jason’s shoulders and escorting his friend away from the women’s dormitory where Rose slept. Jason gazed over his shoulder until they left HQ. Marcos dropped his arm when he felt sure Jason wouldn’t wake up Rose.

“And see how we can help,” said Darcy.

“Sure, great.” Jason said.

Marcos followed Darcy and Jason into the tunnel where the kitchen crew had set up a buffet line. They passed people lying on sleeping pallets, their meager possessions stacked against the tunnel walls nearby. Hundreds had spread out down the tunnel toward Ivory, and into the tunnels toward Little Asia, Havana, and Obsidian.

Marcos hoped moving into the tunnels would keep them safe, but, without QT3’s crops, eventually the Underground would run out of resources. And then what would they do?

The Underground had too much stacked against them.

26

Rose toweled her hair off after the best shower of her life. The water had been warm since she’d jumped in first thing in the morning, ahead of the massive line. Not that she wasn’t perfectly fine with a cool shower, but when she had the opportunity for a warm shower? Well, that was spectacular. Especially after everything she’d endured.

“There you are,” said Amy, plopping onto an unoccupied bed. She thrust a bundle into Rose's arms.

Rose wrapped her best friend in a tight Havana embrace, not caring at all that this wasn’t their norm. Amy chuckled and returned the hug.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” said Amy.

“Hush. I’m capable of change.”

“How are you? I mean, I know you have some injuries that need time to heal, but that’s not what I’m asking about,” said Amy.

Rose couldn’t stand all these pairs of eyes watching her every move. It made her skin itch. Amy was different, though. Her best friend had proven her loyalty.

“Let’s go to the conference room,” Rose said, hanging her towel on the metal rail of her bed and dodging around the line of women waiting for the shower.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Amy. She took the seat nearest the door, but Rose walked around to the far end of the conference room, refusing to put her back to any door again.

Amy frowned and moved to join her on the other side of the table.

“Okay,” said Amy. “You’re acting weird.”

“It’s not weird if you know what I went through,” said Rose. Her right shoulder twitched up toward her ear, and she breathed deeply to relax. “Junior tortured me. And I saw Carrie Wang. I have no clue why she’s with him, but they’re together and I wanted to throw up in my mouth. Then I was waterboarded and I did throw up — everywhere.” She palmed her forehead and looked Amy in the eye. “But I didn’t crack.”

Amy’s face relaxed and she patted Rose’s hand. “I knew you wouldn’t. Everyone was worried. But I know you. The most stubborn person on the planet. No way would you tell them what they wanted to know.”

The corners of Rose’s mouth turned up. Before her supposed arrest, this conversation would’ve made Rose want to punch something. But now? Not so much.

Not that she’d ever be grateful for the torture, but enduring everything had made her appreciate what she had. And it made her want to solve something.

“Are these what I think they are?” Rose said, fingering the bundle with a smile.

Amy nodded and withdrew her hand. “Yep. I convinced Chul to break into your condo and get them, since it was obvious you couldn’t. He was the only one who would’ve been able to get inside the condo and not raise suspicions. The cameras are still there. He told the guards on your door that he’d left a few personal items inside, and the guards didn’t even search him on his way out.”

Rose unwrapped her mother’s journals from her second favorite sweatshirt and marveled at her friend. She’d thrown away her most favorite sweatshirt after escaping her kidnappers. Too many terrible memories.

Amy grabbed a pad and pencil from the center of the table.

They flipped the top journal open to find gibberish. Rose groaned and leaned her head back against the chair. She’d wanted a problem to solve, but this one was a doozy.

“Ok, how do we do this? It's in code, right?” Amy clicked the automatic pencil a few times and positioned it over the empty page.

Rose breathed deeply in and out, then strengthened her resolve. Junior had let certain info slip; and combined with everything Rose had already figured out, the picture was ominous. Yet, there were missing pieces still. As much as she wanted to release her anger at Junior, Rose knew she needed to focus on this task. Chul had risked his life and freedom to collect these journals, and Rose would honor his bravery by being brave herself.

“How do we do this? We try every encoding method I know. Harriet taught me a few. I’m betting this is a combination of several.” She looked over at Amy and her friend’s excited expression buoyed Rose. “This might take a while.”

“I have all day. Let’s get started,” said Amy. “This will be just like when we used to do our homework together way back in primary school.”

Rose smiled. That had been before Rose skipped several grades in one year and her homework assignments were over Amy’s head.

Rose took the first paragraph — at least what looked like it should be a paragraph — and wrote each letter on its own line on the blank page. She first tried basic letter substitution, working off of frequency, erasing her work when nothing made any sense. After the fifth attempt, she wondered if this might not be the first step to decoding the journals. She set that aside and worked on a transposition code, searching the room, then out in the kitchen and dormitory for anything available to wrap paper around.

All she found were the weight bar and the metal bedpost, both about the same size. Since she couldn’t exactly drag the bedpost into the conference room, Rose brought in the weight bar.

She trimmed a piece of paper into one long strip, writing the alphabet vertically down the side and wrapping it around the bar. She then wrote the new, transposed alphabet order on another page and worked the transposition code against the substitution.

Nothing.

She went back to her previous substitution attempts, using the transposition code to make sense of the substituted letters.

Again, nothing.

“Maybe they used another object, not the weight bar,” said Amy. “Let’s go look around. It’ll need to be something you have in your home, too.”

Rose smacked a palm to her forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that. Of course. Let’s go.”

The girls roamed HQ looking for items Rose would also have in her home. Amy picked up a glass — almost the same as the glasses sold at the market in Little Asia — and held it out to Rose. “Would this work?”

Rose scratched her chin and nodded. It would work. “But so would this,” she said, showing Amy a can of beans. “Or this,” she said, holding out the salt container.

“Let’s try them all,” Amy’s grin widened. “We’re totally going to break that code, I can feel it.”

“I’m glad you’re optimistic. I’m worried we’ll be still trying to break it when my mom eventually shows up from wherever she is and takes the journals away.”

Amy gripped Rose’s arm. “I bet she’s just fine.”

Of course, Amy knew exactly what Rose had tried to bury deep inside. While in Junior’s clutches, Rose had realized something important: she and her mother were on the same side. Oddly enough, Carrie had helped. Rose had never expected Carrie to aid her escape, but she had. “If Mom dies, I’ll kill her. I need answers only she can provide.”

Amy laughed. “You know how ridiculous that sounds, right?”

Rose shrugged. “Yeah, I do. But that’s how I feel.”

Amy led the way back into the conference room.

“Hi, Chul!” Rose called down the hall. “Thanks for getting my mom’s journals.”

Chul approached her with a light dip of his chin, which Rose echoed. “It was no problem. I told them I left something inside and they didn’t question me at all. And nice hiding spot. I need to do that in my apartment. And it’s good to see you in one piece. Are you okay?”

Rose shrugged. “You know you’re not responsible for what happened to me, right?”

Chul scratched the back of his neck, and his face flushed. “It’s pretty embarrassing to be a patrol officer and fall for such a simple lie. Makes me question my competence for the job.”

“Never,” said Rose. “If you’d have pushed them too much, they would’ve killed you without a second thought. Those men were despicable, lacking even a shred of humanity. I’m glad you survived to tell everyone what happened.”

“Where did they take you?” Chul asked. “Are you injured? Do we need to find a medic to see you?”

Rose shook her head. “I’m okay. Sore everywhere, with maybe a few bruised or broken ribs. But they’ll heal in no time at all now that I’m actually eating. And I have no idea where I was. Some warehouse in the abandoned city.”

“I hope that guy who took you and deceived me suffers a slow and painful death,” said Chul.

“I’m with you on that,” said Rose. “We can add a few others to that slow and painful death list: Junior, Britwell, Dr. Edwards, Lin, and two thugs whose names I never learned.”

“I’m glad you’re here and doing okay, Rose,” said Chul. “And glad that Amy got those books to you.”

“Did you read them?” Rose asked.

Chul’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I would never do that to you.”

“They’re in code anyway,” said Rose. “Amy and I are trying to break it now.”

“Wow, that sounds hard. I’m going to go lift weights and blow off some steam. The captain has been on us lately to find you. Madder than a hornet you got kidnapped under our watch.”

“You didn’t get in trouble, I hope?”

“Nah, they saw everything on camera. My dented pride is my only injury. Anyway, don’t you worry about that.” Chul turned toward the training room.

“Enjoy your workout,” she said, waving goodbye.

“I would say the ‘luck of Martin be on you’ but that feels wrong,” he said. “Hope you crack the code.”

So much of their world revolved around Martin. What would happen when — not if, because it was inevitable — Martin wasn’t in power anymore, whether from a natural death or assassination or whatever? Rose shuddered, having difficulty imagining the societal upheaval even a change of power would bring. Martin had ruled with an iron-fist for over forty-five years now. That was a long time.

“Alright, you begin with the glass, Amy. I’ll start with the beans,” said Rose.

The two worked through the transposition code first, then the substitution codes Rose had written, systematically rejecting the substitution codes within one line of translation.

It would be obvious when something worked. Or so Rose assumed. She had started on another substitution code possibility when letters formed into words and words formed into sentences.

“Yes!” Rose shrieked.

“That’s it! We did it!” Amy high-fived her and Rose jumped up and down.

“Okay, now we need a lot of paper,” Rose said. “I’ll do the transposition code. You run the substitution.”

They worked together, bent over Sophie’s journals for hours, slowly translating nonsense words into regular English. Eventually, they got to the gold. Rose’s jaw dropped further and further as she read until she slapped the table.

“That’s gotta be it. That warehouse in Central is the control center for a missile or rocket. Look here —,”

Rose read the decoded text, her index finger tracing underneath the words. “The empty building across the street from the CAB now has a rotation of guards. Peter and I forced our way in to talk to their supervisor and saw row after row of networked computers. Enormous servers with blinking lights. The generator running just inside the loading dock drowned out all sound and kept the space so cold my fingers turned blue within minutes.”

Rose looked up at Amy. “That many computers can only mean one thing. Either that’s the internet base for the entire nation — which I highly doubt would be anywhere but in Martinsburg — or that’s the launch control for what Junior called a "sono-nuclear" weapon,” Rose air quoted the term. A missile with a sonic-enhanced nuclear warhead would require a sophisticated control facility. "Now it all makes sense.”

“Whoa, a missile? But Martin can’t have those. It’s against international treaty. Everyone knows that.”

“He can’t, but I’d bet he does — or will. Why else would he institute a military draft? And I bet the Russians, Chinese, and United Koreans are involved up to their eyeballs. They all trained us in my program.”

Rose paced the back edge of the conference room, gripping her hair in large handfuls and tugging. She spun toward Amy. “What I can’t figure out is how. How would sound and nuclear technology pair together inside a weapon mounted on a ballistic missile or other kind of rocket?”

They had to all be connected. Poking her fingers into the acoustic technology had landed Rose in house arrest, then Junior kidnapping her. And he’d wanted to know how she’d uncovered this so-called “sono-nuclear weapon,” which she obviously hadn’t and knew nothing about. It’s like he thought she had insider information. Rose probably knew something big, but hadn’t yet put the pieces together.

She paced while Amy plugged away at the slower substitution code.

“Uh, Rose, you coming back? I’m at a standstill.”

Rose flew back to her seat, desperate to know more. Maybe there was another clue in her mother’s journals that, when put together with Junior’s leak and what Rose already knew, would reveal the entire picture. What Rose had discovered so far wasn’t enough to drive her mother into hiding or to kidnap Rose. A nuclear weapon was bad, but their neighbors had those. Mutual deterrence and all that. Martin wouldn’t dare risk a nuclear war if his enemies had the same technology. He’d want to have the bigger bomb, a sure way to rule the world — or at least his neighborhood, before poking the powerful IRT or Canada.

The girls scribbled the translation for what felt like hours. Rose stood, cracking her back in both directions with a sigh. She’d decided her ribs were only bruised since stretching had eased the soreness to a degree. Then she dove back in.

They were at the end of the last journal in the last entry when Amy hit another revelation.

Her best friend tapped the paper. “Listen to this: ‘I overheard Hudson Britwell, Junior, and Secretary of State Gonzalez planning to overthrow our Mayor and then take over the nation. I have to warn Peter, but they saw me and there’s no time. I’m going into hiding. Rose, if you ever decode these, please warn Mr. Kim. His life is in danger.’ What?”

Rose flew out of her seat, sending the chair careening into the wall behind her. “Is Peter Kim part of the Underground or just a great mayor? Why does she care if he’s not an operative?”

Amy shrugged at her.

“We have to find Tío and make him tell us the truth. Or maybe Abuela,” said Rose. “At least someone needs to warn Mr. Kim.”

This was all interesting information. But what did it have to do with acoustics, a rocket or a missile, and a building full of networked computers? Nothing. Instead of solving one problem, Rose had uncovered a million more. Or that’s how it felt right now.

“I can pass the warning through Grace. It would look odd if I just knock on his door, since I’ve never interacted with him before. Let’s get moving,” said Amy, wrapping the journals and their transcription pages up in Rose’s sweatshirt. “And you take these. I can’t be responsible for all this. I’ll search the tunnels for Abuela.”

Rose clasped the bundle in her crossed arms and headed toward the training room. If Tío were here, that’s where he’d be. Or the firing range.

But no such luck. He was nowhere. Rose sat down on the sparring mat, casting aside her burden and burying her head in her hands.

They were running out of time, and it wasn’t like Rose could journey into Little Asia and warn Queenstown’s mayor. Sending Amy to pass a message through Grace was one thing, but would the Mayor believe their warning? And would a warning be enough? Rose needed Tío. She was stuck. Again.

27

Jason and Sam waited for the telltale footsteps to pass by their hideout in the woods north of the Ivory border, then counted to one hundred before following. Jason held his patrol-issued revolver in the low ready position, hoping against hope that the group would be as unaware of their surroundings as they appeared. The mixed group of men and women whispered among themselves as they’d walked past Sam and Jason, hidden behind an enormous tree trunk near the deer path.

Jason had been sure the deer path was their route in and out of Ivory, but now he had proof. Too bad they couldn’t arrest this group and break them in an interrogation. He had a bigger catch in mind: his father.

After exchanging a glance and a hand signal, Sam and Jason trailed the group down the cliff, through the seemingly unnavigable concrete and steel pile, along a thread of woods, and into an area of abandoned warehouses and old factories. Most of the buildings they passed were crumbling with age, neglect, and perhaps civil war era bombs, but the warehouse this group entered vibrated with energy and noise. Just like before.

Jason stopped along the corner of the neighboring building and gestured for Sam to cover him. Mimicking Marcos's approach to the warehouse and staying low to the ground, Jason sprinted for the far side of the militia’s headquarters and into a dark alcove. A busted-out light hung by its threads from the entryway. Jason ducked into the dark corners as a pair of sentries passed. He held his breath, then followed them around the building, looking into and listening at the open windows above his head along the way.

Pieces of conversation floated through the open windows.

“Did you see how Lin took that Havana kid down? And he supposedly boxed in Havana. Ha. Little Asia is so going to win tonight.”

Jason frowned. Win? Win what? Had they grouped people from each area onto a team? To do what? Fight each other? That made no sense. He did a quick pull-up on the open windowsill.

A whistle drew all eyes to a platform where his father stood, microphone in hand.

“Hel—” Hudson Britwell’s words cut off with a screech and the entire group covered their ears.

Jason dropped to the ground and kept moving. He couldn’t get caught standing at a window when those sentries returned on their route.

A loud tap-tap-tap sounded from the microphone as Jason rounded the corner and ground to a halt. The sentries stood beneath an open window. Jason backpedaled around the corner, as his heart beat double-time.

The sentries stood listening at the window, and Hudson Britwell screamed progressively louder into the microphone.

“And we will do this for the glory of the FRA! Our people have suffered for too long. Queenstown needs new leadership. For you and our future!”

The room erupted in cheers.

Jason frowned. New leadership for Queenstown? So he had his eye on the mayorship. But that made no sense. Couldn’t Junior simply make Hudson Britwell Queenstown’s Mayor and be done with it? Why go to the trouble of gathering an army outside the city, away from the patrol captains’ control? There had to be more to this than just taking over Queenstown.

Clapping roused Jason from his thoughts. The sentries exchanged a typical Obsidian handshake, then continued on their route.

Lin now had the microphone and assigned various groups to tasks, including a feast for the Obsidian area members. Jason’s stomach growled in response to hearing two dishes he longed to taste — greens and macaroni and cheese. But Jason had no time for hunger or eating.

When Jason reached the back of the old warehouse, he ducked into the woods and passed several Ivory militia members smoking outside the loading dock entrance. Their speech patterns alone betrayed their origin. They all stood in the shadows, the smoke from their glowing cigarettes wafting out invisible fumes Jason could smell from the tree cover. Cigarettes. The smell alone made Jason’s stomach turn.

When the sentries had once again rounded the front of the building, Jason darted across the open space between the woods and the building, signaling to Sam that all was well. Then he followed the sentries.

This time, when Jason stopped at a random open window and lifted himself above the sill, his jaw dropped open. Pallet after pallet of clothing were stacked along the sides of the large open room, the boxes overflowing. Various militia members held a replica of his patrol uniform to their torsos for size.

As one Little Asian pinned a pair of pants at his waist and frowned at the leg length, Jason catalogued the details. Same black color. Same cut and fit, with some shirts too tight and others too loose. Judging by the grimaces on many militia members’ faces, it was also the same uncomfortable, coarse fabric. The only difference was the missing Queenstown insignia emblazoned on his own left breast.

Jason dropped back to the ground and sprinted for the next set of windows, pulling himself up again.

Several female militia members modeled the pants for their friends, commenting on the uniform’s tight fit across their backsides, while male militia members standing nearby ogled the group.

He released his grip on the sill and sprinted for the woods. He’d seen enough. Jason joined Sam at the neighboring building and gestured for them to retreat.

Once they’d reached the quiet north Ivory woods, Jason recounted what he’d seen.

“Our uniforms?” Sam said in a whisper. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“That’s it. We have to tell Foster,” said Sam. “But not with the comms. Dispatch can’t get a whiff of this. It’s gotta be face to face. Foster’s going to be livid. But what are they planning? Why recruit a militia when Hudson Britwell must have at least one patrol captain in his back pocket? I was thinking about that. How else are all these people from Little Asia, Havana, or Obsidian getting out here except walking out of the gates? Those areas aren’t like Ivory with the woods and a supposedly foolproof barrier cliff.”

“Agreed. Who knows how many treasonous patrol officers we have in this city? Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl. And yes, Foster is going to blow his gasket.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

“That’s the thing, Sam,” said Jason. “I truly think I should go alone. He’ll know you were here, but I’ll tell him you kept lookout. That I was the one who saw everything. Just in case. I don’t think my da — Hudson — would ever turn Foster to treason, but who knows. He’s turned someone — or many someones. I don’t want your name anywhere on this report.”

Sam clapped Jason’s shoulder. “I can respect that. And thank you. Though I can watch out for myself.”

The two jogged through the woods, nightingales and doves cooing the soundtrack for the turmoil filling Jason’s soul. Once they’d reached the Ivory patrol offices, Sam waved bye, and Jason peeled off for Foster’s office. Jason told himself this would turn out okay. Too bad he didn’t believe his own self-talk.

28

Harriet ran through the field as smoke surrounded her and choked the breath out of her lungs. She fell to her knees, her chest heaving in and out. Gunfire sounded all around, but Harriet knew she was safe. For now.

Alma May appeared at her side, tugging her to stand.

“We have to move!” her cousin shouted, dragging Harriet toward a line of trees on the other side of the grassy field. “It’s not safe here!”

The cousins ran hand-in-hand into the dense trees, Harriet shielding her face against the sharp pine needles.

Where were they?

Queenstown didn’t have entire forests of pine trees.

The ground crunched as they walked, bringing Harriet’s gaze to the brown needles littering the forest floor.

“Where is everyone?”

“You got separated,” Alma May said. “So I’m leading you back to them. It happens in the thick of battle, but they’ll be worried about you.”

Harriet awoke, her neck stiff, and realized she’d fallen asleep on the couch. The dream faded. Yet another time Alma May had tried to get her to return to her friends. But Harriet wouldn’t listen to arguments, even in her dreams.

It had been almost a week of torture waiting for her mother to return. She’d hardly slept. Nightmares of battle didn’t count.

The apartment was dark and too quiet, and Harriet wondered what had awoken her. A soft knock on her front door sent Harriet hurtling toward it. She rested one eye against the peephole and saw Xavier standing on their front stoop, shifting his weight back and forth. He was in normal clothes, his patrol officer uniform and gun nowhere to be seen.

She unlocked the door and threw it open, vaulting out into her friend’s embrace. He gripped her tightly.

“Let’s walk and talk, Harriet,” Xavier said, as he distanced himself from her. “Quickly, before it’s too light out.”

Pre-dawn darkness surrounded them, and Harriet stuffed her ball cap lower onto her head. Her hair poked out of the bottom edge and made the cap poof out. Hopefully, it would obscure her identity.

“Your mom is still in custody,” said Xavier, his voice low as he leaned into her. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything to stop it, and the captain didn’t summon my partner and I as backup until he was already at your house.”

Harriet gripped his forearm. “I know if you could’ve, you would’ve warned us. I knew something like this was coming. They kept following me around. Are they after me?”

“What? No. No, Harriet. They were definitely after your mother. They think she knows something about rations going missing at the depot and missing merchandise from the market. No, this had nothing to do with you or even why they’re following you.”

A pit yawned open at the base of Harriet’s stomach at hearing her mother was in patrols’ custody for something she never would’ve done. Plus, Harriet had a decent idea where all those missing rations and merchandise had ended up. She’d seen it with her own eyes. But Harriet couldn’t say anything about that. And it burned her up.

“Is she okay?” Harriet bit her lip. She both yearned to hear about her mother and dreaded the news.

“She’s alive, that’s all I know,” said Xavier. “But Harriet, I think you should escape. Go to HQ. Don’t stay here.”

“No way am I leaving my family to face the patrols alone,” she said, stopping and planting her hands on her hips.

He turned to face her. “You’re still in danger. Nothing’s changed.”

“Did they comment on my absence when they arrested Mom?”

He shook his head. “Your grandparents said you were at a friend’s home.”

“You’re positive this has nothing to do with me?”

Xavier hesitated, then nodded his head. But it was his hesitation that spoke louder than his yes. He couldn’t be sure.

“I can’t leave them, Xavier,” she said. “I won’t. Escaping doesn’t accomplish anything. They’d come after others I was close to, and I can’t bear that weight. I’m not going back to HQ. I’m not delivering messages anymore. And I’m not training. Nothing. I’ll be the best-behaved citizen your patrols have ever seen.”

Xavier frowned, a thick line appearing between his eyebrows. “It’s not because of you—“

“I don’t care,” she interrupted. “I’m done taking risks that my family pays for with their lives and their liberty.” The fact her family still paid the price for her father’s execution as a traitor a decade earlier should tell anyone this regime never forgot. A traitor in the family evidently meant a breeding ground for more.

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Xavier, turning to face her. “Why are you staying away from HQ? Everyone misses you.”

“I’m being ridiculous? You’re the one who pulled me out of bed and dragged me outside. Walls’ balls, Xavier! Talk about scaring the living daylights out of me!”

“Keep your voice down. Everything is fine. But you’re not,” he scowled at her and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why are you so afraid?”

“No, I’m just fine. Perfect, to be honest. I don’t have to be afraid or worry about my grandparents, because I’m not — you know — doing anything worthy of attention. Once patrols release my mom, everything will be perfect.”

Xavier rolled his eyes. “Okay, say they aren’t watching you anymore, which they are. And say they won’t watch your mom anymore once she’s released, which they will. What’s to stop Johnson from tailing you in the future? Nothing and no one, that’s what. He’s pissed off about the goods going missing from the distro. That’s all. If you could just be patient, things are happening behind the scenes that you’ll have to trust me about. But once Johnson finds out the truth, you won’t have anything to worry about. And believe me, Captain Johnson will get to the bottom of this.”

“Is everyone else okay? I haven’t even been to HQ to see anyone in so long,” Harriet said, hearing the wistfulness in her own voice and blowing it off. “As long as Johnson is patrol captain for my area, he will always suspect my family of treason. Can’t you see? No matter how well I behave, he won’t ever believe I’m not a traitor. The last thing I need is to give him a good reason to haul me or my family in. And telling him the truth about where Obsidian’s goods are would give him an awfully good reason to arrest me. Not doing it. Plus, I’m scared of that man.”

There. She’d finally said it out loud. Her very real fear of Captain Johnson didn’t lessen by vocalizing it. In fact, the fear grew, nearly choking her with its intensity and strength. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and forced a breath into her lungs. But she knew all too well what he was capable of.

“Harriet Johnson, you listen to me real good right now. You are cut out for this. Way more than Dez or me or anyone else. Being a messenger and an…,” he dropped his voice, “operative is what you’ve worked for your entire life. I’ve never seen a female operative so skilled in self-defense or even attack. You’re a beast when you’re not getting in your own way. And let’s not even talk about how hard you are to tail when you want to lose someone. Seriously. How can you not see this?”

Harriet shook her head. He had her mixed up with Alma May. “I’m not brave. You’ve got this all wrong.” He didn’t see inside her head, hear the voices or the accusations. No one understood.

“That’s a lie. You’re the bravest person I know. And you’re strong. Don’t let fear keep you back from everything you are meant to do, be, and have. I can’t stand seeing you like this, because I know you. You’re better than this. Patrols are tailing you, sure, but that’s standard operating procedure for you.”

“But what about Dez? Is he involved?”

Xavier looked away, then back at her, his full lips thinning to nearly non-existent.

“Tell me, please.”

“Yes, he is. You were right to suspect him,” Xavier said, cursing under his breath. “We’re keeping him in the Obsidian Underground for now, but no more trips into the tunnels. Good thing we blindfolded him at the rec center so he couldn’t see how we entered.”

“So you did bring him?”

Xavier wiped a hand across his forehead and hung his head. “Yeah, not my best decision. I pushed it with your grandfather and the others, and they trusted my judgment. I’ve had to apologize for that. But Dez doesn’t have access on his own. Plus, he promised to not reveal the Underground, if for no other reason than to protect his other family members who are also operatives.”

Harriet stood with her mouth gaping open, then snapped it shut. She paced across the alleyway, inhaling the scent of fresh rain mingled with the garbage overflowing the nearby dumpster. The smell of wet rot symbolized her life perfectly right now. Never had she wanted to be around Dez less than after what Xavier had revealed. An informant for the enemy? No, thank you.

Xavier stepped into her path, halting her. “Think about it. Please, Harriet. Promise me.” Xavier gripped her shoulders, then drew her into a tight hug, patting her back. “You’re like this brave little sister to me, and I can’t help but push you.”

She buried her head into his shoulder, then smacked his chest, shoving him away with a step back. “Little sister, huh? You always wanted one of those. Too bad I never asked for a big brother.”

“Yeah, too bad. But you’re stuck with me. Now, look me in the eye and promise me you’ll think about returning to HQ, re-engaging as a messenger.” He held her at arm’s length, peering down at her. She ducked her head.

Minutes passed. Xavier wouldn't give up. She knew this about him.

Harriet sighed and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “Ugh. I suppose I’ll think about it.”

Xavier shook his head. “Not good enough. I want a promise.”

He held out his hand, and she grasped it. “Alright, I promise to think about it,” she said as they exchanged their version of the Obsidian handshake with a snap and a wiggle of fingers.

“That’s more like it,” said Xavier, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “That’s the Harriet we all know and love. Ok, I gotta get home to bed. When are you working next?”

“I’ve got a shift tomorrow. I hope to God Dara didn’t schedule Dez with me again.”

“She wouldn’t dare. You talked to her last time that happened, right?”

Harriet nodded.

“X? Thanks for not giving up on me,” Harriet said while they walked back toward her first-floor apartment.

Xavier squeezed her shoulders, then let go. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

He waved goodbye, and Harriet climbed the back porch steps and entered her kitchen. She knew she’d think of little else but her friends and the Underground all night. Harriet wondered if she honestly needed a big brother. They tugged uncomfortable truths and too-close insights into the light when she’d prefer to keep all that junk hidden in the dark.

29

Jason could see no other way around it. They had to bring at least one of the patrol captains into the situation. There was a militia, run by his father and Junior, operating right under the Queenstown city council’s nose. That his father was hiding it was enough evidence that he was up to no good.

And the Underground didn’t have enough firepower to go after them, if what Rose and Harriet both claimed was true. Pallet after pallet of weapons and ammunition. And who knew what else. Bombs maybe? This was way over their heads.

Junior and Hudson looked like they were about to start a war. And the problem with war was people died. People like the Underground operatives on city council or in other city leadership positions. They’d worked too hard for too long to lose to a wanna-be dictator and his narcissistic lackey.

Jason knocked on Captain Foster’s open door, awaiting the inevitable “come in” before he entered.

“What can I do ya for, Britwell? I hope you have news for me.”

Jason winced at the sound of his last name. It was his, but he wished it weren’t. He’d change it if he could, but to what? “I know what’s going on in the woods, sir.”

Foster’s gaze snapped to Jason’s. “Close that door and have a seat. Let’s hear this.”

Foster pushed aside a notebook and folded his hands on the desk in front of him, leaning toward Jason.

“It’s a militia, sir. Donald MacBain, Junior to his friends, and my da — Hudson — have assembled a bunch of people from across Queenstown. They meet in a formerly abandoned warehouse just outside Ivory.”

Foster rocketed to his feet and paced the short area behind his desk. “You’re telling me there’s treason happening right outside our city perpetrated by a cabinet member? Does Martin know about this?”

Jason shrugged. Did Martin know? Probably not, or else that warehouse would’ve been razed to the ground. “And it gets worse. I saw inside their main training space. They have pallets of canned goods, weapons, ammunition, and patrol uniforms. Patrol uniforms!”

The militia having their uniforms offended Jason more than anything else, even more than them having weapons. He was proud to be a patrol officer in Ivory, and offended at the idea that the enemy would try to masquerade as law-abiding patrol officers. It would sow chaos of the worst kind.

“We need to shut this down now.” Foster headed for the door, but Jason darted in front of him.

“We need to be smart, though. What if Martin knows about this and approves? After all, Junior is a cabinet member, a Martin-regime insider. And Junior clearly has allies or people or whatever working in the Queenstown’s depots and markets to get all those goods without anyone the wiser. Even if the Martin regime emblem was wiped off the vehicles I saw and our patrol emblem wasn’t on the uniforms.”

Foster ran a hand over his bald pate, pulling at his ears on the way down. “You’re right. I was so mad I saw nothing but taking them into custody. Let me contact the other captains.”

Jason frowned. “Other captains? Wait. How did the militia get all those goods out of the city? Could one or more of the patrol captains be working with my dad? Maybe even part of the city council? You know he has people everywhere.”

Foster propped his hands on his hips and paced the small area next to his desk. “No way would Johnson be in on this. He’s too straight. Sure, I could see Juarez swayed by power and maybe even the square Romel, but never Johnson. Executed his own family for treason.”

Jason startled at the revelation that the Obsidian patrol captain had executed family members. How cruel. Yet also exemplary for a patrol officer. It’s probably how the man ended up as captain, given he willingly sacrificed his own family for the regime’s security. Jason wondered if Harriet knew the family or if they’d been operatives inside Obsidian’s Underground. He shuddered.

Jason had heard nothing — positive or negative — about the Havana Patrol Captain Juarez or the Little Asian Patrol Captain Romel, except Junior had deceived or coerced Romel to get past Rose's guards. The guy couldn’t be that smart if he fell for that. Or perhaps he was on the take with Hudson.

“Give me a few days, Britwell,” Foster said, pulling out a notebook to scribble a few unintelligible lines. The captain’s screen was nowhere in sight, likely abandoned in a drawer. “Dismissed. And thank you for coming to me with this.” Foster’s gaze locked on Jason’s, and Jason knew his boss didn’t blame him for his father’s actions.

Too bad Jason couldn’t stop blaming himself. He left Foster’s office and the Ivory patrol building, waving to his co-workers coming on shift without truly seeing their faces. When he finally reached Sam’s apartment and let himself in, he collapsed onto the threadbare couch. All Jason wanted was for the nightmare to end, but every day brought a new revelation of horror, conspiracy, and impending violence.

30

Marcos stared at Xavier as his new friend told him about Harriet’s home being searched, about her mom being taken into custody. Marcos’s heart thudded toward the floor, even as he set his practice revolver onto the counter. The ever-present smell of gunpowder faded into the background.

“So, you’re telling me she’s never coming back here?” Marcos couldn’t place the emotion, but the word “loss” came to mind. As if never seeing Harriet again created a hole in his life.

Not as if. It did. He felt untethered without her around.

“I hate that I have to be the bearer of this news, but we can’t let her just give up,” Xavier said, leaning against the wall between their two target practice lanes. “She’s integral to the Underground. And in way less danger with Obsidian patrols than she thinks. I figured it all out.”

“You figured what out?”

“Why they took her mom into custody, which was obvious based on the questions I overheard. Oh, and why patrols are tailing her all over Obsidian. Harriet was right to suspect Dez, and I’m kicking myself now. But he’s on some special assignment from the captain. I guess they’re like second cousins or something weird.”

Marcos motioned his hands in a circle, impatient for Xavier to fill in the gaps because right now, all Marcos wanted was to punch Dez’s lights out.

“Ruth’s arrest was about the missing pallets from the depot,” Xavier said. “The captain went ballistic when everything went missing — gradually, over weeks and weeks — and there was no video evidence. Whoever did it knows computers and networks astonishingly well.”

“Junior and Britwell’s people. That’s who.”

“What? I thought they arrested Hudson Britwell.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” Marcos filled Xavier in on Britwell’s escape from prison — or rather release on Junior’s orders — and then told him about the warehouse with stacks of stolen goods outside the city.

Xavier bolted to his feet. “Why haven’t you all brought in someone inside the city?”

Marcos raised his hands palms-up. “Hey, amigo, I’m kinda stuck here. But Jason and Sam were digging further and planned to bring their Ivory captain in.”

“Oh, Foster will go nuts about this. And then he’ll tell Captain Johnson because those two are buddies. What kind of firepower does this militia have?”

“Loads. And the guns look just like yours. Exact replica of uniforms too, but without the patrols insignia.”

“Walls’ balls,” Xavier said, as he ran his hands through his hair, making his curls stand up higher than usual. “I gotta pass this intel to Johnson. That will turn their eyes away from Harriet’s family.”

“We can let Foster do that and accomplish the same thing. Why would you know any of this? Jason and Sam have orders from Foster to follow the militia out as far as they can. But you? Nothing of the sort. And you don’t know Jason or Sam or me or anyone in the Underground, right? At least not in Johnson’s hearing. Or else you’ll end up in a cell.”

“Ugh, you’re right. What I don’t understand is why Dez targeted Harriet, unless it’s just about her not wanting him around.” Xavier tapped his toes, then sighed. “There has to be something I can do. Some way to help.”

Marcos smiled. “Since you can see Harriet and not risk imprisonment or worse, she’s your assignment, amigo. You’re the only hope we have to convince her to return to the Underground, that whatever she’s afraid of isn’t true. We need her.”

What Marcos didn’t say was that he needed her, though that was the naked truth. Marcos needed Harriet around. He needed her positive outlook and creative thinking. He needed her smile and her presence. But so did Rose, Jason, and the others.

“I’ll go see her,” said Xavier. “What should I tell her?”

“Everything. Don’t hold anything back. Tell her about Dez, too. She needs to know his real loyalty. And Xavier? Tell her we need her. That we can’t stop Britwell and Junior without her.”

Xavier held out his hand for an Obsidian handshake. Of course, Xavier had taught Marcos a special variation just for the guys. Harriet would be so surprised when she returned to HQ and he pulled that one out on her.

If she returned.

“Hey you all,” said Rose, bounding into the firing range. She checked in every practice lane, a frown fixed on her face. “Have you seen Tío?”

Xavier and Marcos both shook their heads.

“It’s been days since I’ve seen him,” said Marcos. “He’s probably on an overland delivery to another city. Those happen every so often.”

“Well, if you see him, I need to talk to him,” she said. “It’s beyond important.”

Xavier and Marcos exchanged a glance.

“Anything you can share with the class?” asked Xavier.

Rose folded her arms across her chest. “I’d love to, but Tío would kill me if he weren’t the first to hear.” She dropped her arms, then wiggled her fingers at them. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Rose disappeared into the training room, the open door letting in a loud heavy metal rock song.

“O—kay?” said Marcos.

“That wasn’t weird or anything,” said Xavier.

“You never know with Rose,” said Marcos. “Maybe she figured out some crazy physics thing.” He shrugged. “Anyway, you’ve got a job to do, right?”

“Right,” said Xavier, heading off into the training room with a wave over his shoulder and leaving Marcos to brood on his own.

Xavier had to succeed. Marcos couldn’t see a way forward if Harriet stayed away from the Underground.

31

Rose sat with her mother’s journals resting in her lap, staring at the cover of the top journal. She and Amy had successfully transcribed all the journals. Her mother had given her explicit permission in her last entry to not only read them, but to decode them and then put everything together. If only the pieces would click into place with other truths she knew.

Junior had said as much — a “sono-nuclear weapon” — but Rose needed to unlock the physics, understand how the weapon would work and the devastation it would cause.

Her program’s acoustics coursework wouldn’t leave Rose’s brain. Like a sore thumb, it stuck out. Fluid dynamics, rocket engineering, and launching, even nuclear physics, all made complete sense for the purported aim of nuclear power and satellite communications.

But not sound. The sonic-enforced walls were the only use for acoustic technology in the FRA, to Rose’s knowledge. But the walls were old news, old technology even. The wall’s sonic repulsive technology originated before the Great Civil War for non-violent riot control.

Then there was the warehouse with its massive collection of network servers. A missile or rocket were the only logical uses for that much computing power. It was a likely control center location.

That seemed like a lot of effort to violate the international treaty when the FRA could piggyback on their allies’ satellites. In fact, they probably already did. Unless the sono-nuclear weapon was such a significant innovation that the FRA was the only nation to possess it. Then she could see Martin jealously protecting the technology from even his enemies. He didn’t share very well with others.

She thumbed through the journals, most of the content detailing long-forgotten schemes or back-room deals concocted to protect Little Asia from Britwell’s machinations. Or to ensure a fair distribution of college slots, food, or market items when Britwell’s pact wanted to monopolize the distribution plan.

One small entry from four years ago stuck out to Rose — Dr. Edward Weber’s nomination for Dean of the Queenstown College. Of course, Britwell had nominated him, then shoe-horned his name onto the top of their list sent to the Dean of the University in Martinsburg. Weber had likely gone through a long vetting process, but this was just more evidence that Britwell had Weber in his back pocket.

But one reason Weber’s nomination went through, according to her mother’s notes, was his expertise in acoustical physics. Sure, he’d also pioneered water treatment protocols and designed the new hydro-electric plant, which provided seasonal electricity to Queenstown. But he was also an expert in acoustics?

No one had ever mentioned that little tidbit. And if he was such an expert, why wasn’t he teaching their acoustics coursework? Could it be that they were hiding his expertise for a reason? Thinking perhaps everyone had forgotten over the years?

Words swam in her vision as various pieces tumbled into place. How to produce the sonic waves necessary to amplify a nuclear explosion seemed so obvious suddenly. Why she hadn’t seen this before was beyond Rose. She slammed the journal closed and vaulted to her feet.

“Marcos!” she yelled into the training room as she bolted toward her friend. He racked his weights and turned to face her.

“What’s up? You look like you just got bad news.”

“Maybe I did,” she said, her knee jiggling in time with her heartbeat. She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I figured out what Martin’s up to. It’s a nuclear bomb delivered with a ballistic missile, paired with a conventional secondary explosive that produces a low-frequency sonic wave designed to enhance the nuclear explosion. My program is meant to operate and maybe even design the bomb or the missile, then oversee its launch and delivery. There’s also a warehouse across the street from the CAB packed with servers. That has to be mission control.”

His mouth hung open. He blinked twice and shook his head, as if his brain had just caught up with Rose’s words. “Whoa, whoa. What? Nuclear bomb? Start over. But the FRA isn’t allowed to utilize nuclear technology, not even for a power plant. How could he get his hands on the enriched uranium, let alone materials for a ballistic missile?”

Rose shrugged, then slowly worked back through everything until Marcos nodded along with her. “I have no clue how Martin will obtain enriched uranium, but given our allies, I doubt that’s his biggest hurdle to a sonic-reinforced nuclear weapon mounted on a ballistic missile. It has to be this based on what my mom overheard, what we learned in the program, and what Junior leaked while he tortured me. It’s the only thing that fits. You know how the wall repels us if we get too close, right?”

“Yeah, of course. Who hasn’t seen some kid go flying after being too curious for their own good?”

“That was me once. So, if you pair that repulsive sonic technology with a nuclear explosion, I think, if I understand the physics right, it would magnify the strength of the nuclear explosion. Instead of destroying a city like a normal nuclear weapon, it would impact a far larger area. I’ll have to run some math, but I don’t think it would take more than a few sonic-enhanced nuclear bombs to destroy an entire nation.”

Marcos collapsed onto the mat in the weight-lifting area, thrusting his chin into his hands. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Rose nodded and sat on the floor opposite him. “As serious as I can be. What do we do?”

“We stop him.”

“But how? With Junior, Britwell, and their militia breathing down our city’s neck and missile control a highly fortified warehouse right in Central? And where’s the actual missile with the weapon payload?”

Marcos shook his head. “No way would Martin keep that anywhere but near him. I can’t imagine him allowing city leaders access to that kind of firepower. If someone else controlled it, they could demand Martin step down.”

Her jaw dropped open, and she sucked in a deep breath. “That’s gotta be the ultimate end game for Junior and Britwell,” said Rose, the final element clicking into place.

Marcos tilted his head at her as he considered what she’d said. “Hmm, not likely. Why wouldn’t they just confront him head-on, seize the weapon wherever it is, rather than messing around with a smallish city and alerting Martin to their intentions?” Marcos shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Unless it’s about controlling the warehouse here first? That’s the only way that scenario works. But again, the guards would report back to Martin.”

Rose groaned. “And Martin could just send a few hover planes and troops, capture back the warehouse and utterly destroy their base of power,” said Rose. “No, you’re right. There’s some other reason to use Queenstown as a militia recruiting base. Maybe it’s the proximity to Martinsburg? They’d never get away with this right under Martin’s nose.”

“We have to bring the others into this.”

“Where’s Harriet been?”

Marcos frowned. “She won’t come to HQ,” said Marcos. “After you got kidnapped and her mom was taken into custody, evidently, she shut down. But Xavier is going to talk to her, tell her that the Obsidian captain is looking for whoever stole stuff from the distro. And we all know who that is, right? Everything is at Britwell and Junior’s militia base.”

Rose sighed. She missed her friend, needed her wise counsel and positive attitude. “I wish I could march into Obsidian and talk to her. Hiding won’t help. I hate it that she feels like that, but I’m not sure what we can do from here. If Xavier can’t convince her, we need to give her space for a while.”

Marcos wrung his hands. “I hate feeling powerless like this. Even in QT3, I could do something.” He sighed. “Until they took Caroline and Sharlyn and I couldn’t do anything. That was so frustrating. I don’t know why this feels so much worse.”

“Because of how close you are to Harriet. You were training Caroline. She wasn’t a friend. Harriet is, and she means a lot to you. Plus, the whole thing with Junior and Britwell is way bigger than either of us can solve alone. It makes complete sense to me why you’re more frustrated now.”

Marcos ran his hands through his hair, making the curls flop around. “I guess you’re right.”

“For now, we have to figure out how to stop Junior and Britwell. I wish I knew when they were planning to make a move and take over the city.” Rose couldn’t allow Junior or Britwell to kill their leaders, including Mr. Kim. If only she’d known his role and been able to decode the journals earlier. She could’ve warned him while she was still inside Little Asia.

They had to find someone to warn Mr. Kim, and hope they were in time to prevent disaster. Maybe Grace would believe Amy's story, and would then warn Mr. Kim. Too many variables for Rose's comfort.

“Come on, let’s go find some people,” Marcos said.

32

Harriet threw herself on her bed after cleaning up the dinner dishes, her grandfather’s words echoing behind her.

“This is easy for you,” he had said. “You don’t realize how skilled you are, how gifted in running messages. I wish you could see yourself the way we do.”

Grandpa Thompson had wanted her to go to Ivory to deliver a message to Andrew Stewart later that night, but Harriet had flat-out refused. Skilled or not, she wasn’t going.

She had to be firm. To resist the tempting call to go right back into operative mode. To completely ignore the patrols tailing her everywhere. To forget the torture her own mother likely endured.

Harriet hated that she knew exactly who’d taken those goods, and where they were. Well, sort of. To show Obsidian patrols the warehouse location meant giving away the Underground headquarters. She might not be going there any longer — solely to protect her family — but there was no way she’d betray the movement like that.

Which meant they were stuck.

Captain Johnson was in the dark about everything. And not that Harriet knew for certain Hudson Britwell or Junior were involved. The presence of labor camp guards who’d escaped out the gate she’d been fighting at shouted at Junior’s involvement. And where Junior went, Hudson Britwell also went.

Harriet saw no way to reveal her secrets. The same secrets that would get the patrols off her own back. Not without betraying her own illegal actions.

Maybe she needed to think more, and a way would magically appear to her.

She straightened her spine, intent on keeping her focus on the medics and taking care of her family. No one else could do those things.

She hung the dish towel on the oven handle and turned out the kitchen light. “I’m going to bed, Grandma,” Harriet said, bending to kiss her grandmother on the cheek.

“We’ve weathered worse things, dear,” her grandmother whispered, stroking Harriet’s cheek with a smile. “Your mother will recover once she’s released. And she will be released because she’s done nothing wrong.”

Harriet left the kitchen and brushed her teeth in the bathroom, her thoughts spiraling downward with the water down the drain. She replaced her toothbrush in its holder, entered her bedroom, took off her sweatshirt, and laid on top of her covers, not intending to sleep just yet.

Sending the Obsidian patrols after Junior and Britwell before they destroyed Queenstown would make Harriet so happy. It would not only remove the suspicion from her family but also neutralize the threat the militia posed to their city.

But how? Thoughts spun in her head, around and around. A knock on her bedroom door made her launch from her bed, her jeans still on. Sleep clouded her mind.

“Harriet, your mother’s back,” Grandma Thompson said, the morning light turning her familiar form into a shadow of darkness.

Harriet threw herself into the hallway, straight into her mother’s outstretched arms.

“I was so worried about you,” Harriet said.

Her mother winced and drew back from Harriet.

“I’m so sorry!” Harriet dropped her arms and examined her mother.

Bruises marred Ruth’s cheeks and Harriet blanched at the obvious fingerprints on her mother’s throat and collarbone. Patrols had beaten her.

“Are you injured? Let me check you, please. Or call Dara. She’d come without a question.”

“I’m fine, Harriet. Nothing a little rest won’t cure,” her mother held a hand to the ribs on her left side.

“You’re not fine. They beat you and maybe broke a rib,” said Harriet. “Come here.” She pointed to the couch, then ran back to her bedroom to get her medic bag. Harriet listened to her mother’s lungs, then probed along her ribs, noting when her mother flinched or withdrew even an inch.

“We’d need an X-ray to know for sure, but I don’t think they broke any ribs. Just bruised.” Harriet took her mother’s face in her hands and examined the bruising pattern along her mother’s cheekbones and throat. “Did they try to choke you?”

Her mother’s eyes widened, then darted to the lamp next to them. “Of course not,” she said while nodding.

Harriet smacked her forehead. She’d forgotten loud voices came through muffled, but a discerning listener could probably tease out her words.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Let me check your throat. Does it hurt to talk?”

Her mother pitched her head from shoulder to shoulder, as if to say “sort of.”

“I’m hoarse mostly from screaming so much,” she said. “They were fishing. Nothing concrete to hold against me. No legitimate evidence, aside from conjecture.”

Harriet’s heart practically stopped. “Fishing? That’s not good.” That patrols knew to probe for treason and search their home was bad enough. Things would only go downhill from here.

“I’m done,” said Harriet, pulling away from her mother to sit on the floor.

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” her mother said, resting a hand on Harriet’s shoulder. She squatted next to Harriet. “You don’t have to change anything. They were coming at me about something completely unrelated to us as a family. It’s more to do with my position. Goods have gone missing.”

Harriet’s gaze darted to the lamp again and leaned into her mother. “I know where it’s all gone,” Harriet whispered directly into her mother’s ear. “There’s a warehouse outside the city. Entire pallets of goods, including patrol weapons. But I can’t tell patrols, or they’ll know I was outside the city. See why I’m done?”

Harriet’s mother chewed on her lip and stayed silent.

Harriet pushed past her mother, striding into her bedroom. “I have a shift now, and that’s my focus from here on. Understand?”

Harriet buried the nagging voice inside that questioned if she was being honest with herself.

Ruth followed Harriet, stopping outside her bedroom door and pulling her daughter into an embrace. “If that’s what you want, Harriet, so be it,” her mother said before heading into the bathroom.

The image of Ruth, beaten and bruised at the hands of patrols would be burned — along with many other terrifying scenes — on the walls of her memory for the rest of her life.

33

Marcos sprinted toward the Ivory tunnel outlet to where Abuela and Moses had set up a small pallet among the labor camp refugees. Rose headed in the other direction, hoping to find Tío or Grace or anyone who could run a message into Little Asia to Peter Kim. The Underground couldn’t lose their leader to Junior’s and Britwell’s schemes.

Despite passing hundreds camped along the tunnel walls as she headed toward the Havana and Obsidian entrances, Rose didn’t see a single person who knew Little Asia well enough to sneak in and out without being caught.

Darcy called out, “Hey, Rose! Come join us for a game of cards.” Darcy and Michael had gathered a group and were dealing out a hand to each person.

Rose frowned. “I’m looking for Tío,” she said. “If you see him, tell him to talk to either Marcos or me. It’s important.”

“Will do,” said Darcy.

“I saw Tío heading to Havana a few days ago. And Roberto told us he’d also be gone for a few days. Maybe Tío went with him?” Michael said.

Rose shook her head. “Nope, the drivers do intercity routes alone. Roberto complained about it, in fact. And he’ll be back tomorrow. I bet Tío had a driver shift or had his own intercity route.”

Maybe once Roberto returned, he could take a message into Little Asia. Now that she knew Mr. Kim’s life was in danger, she was impatient and wanted to warn him, maybe even get him out of there.

Rose waved a goodbye to the group and headed for the solitude of the tunnels toward Little Asia, where thankfully no one had set up camp yet.

For days on end, she had avoided Tío, angry at his withholding information about her mother, among other things. He irritated her. But now that she had information he needed to know, she couldn’t find him. And Abuela and Moses were always busy with food procurement and distribution. Plus, neither of them could sneak into Little Asia, anyway.

Rose felt so alone with this tremendous revelation of a weapon that could destroy millions of people, and what does she hyper-fixate on? Protecting Mr. Kim. She snorted at her own horrid logic.

She kicked the concrete wall, wincing as pain shot through her foot and up her leg. That was stupid.

If they couldn’t find one person — Tío — couldn’t stop Britwell and Junior from whatever scheme they had planned, couldn’t make sure one leader — Mr. Kim — stayed alive, then how would they ever stop Martin from deploying his new fancy — and deadly — weapon? It seemed hopeless, way beyond her ability. She leaned against the cool cement wall, her back flush against it, then sunk to the ground.

Why would anyone believe them?

If she went to a patrols captain, they’d arrest her. Maybe Captain Foster would believe Jason, but Rose doubted it. Why should he?

Jason was probably already in a cell in Ivory. Rose hadn’t seen him for days, either.

Then there was Harriet. She could be locked up in an Obsidian patrols cell, and they’d never hear unless Xavier told them. Rose felt so powerless to help her friends or change anything going on in their city, let alone their nation.

Sure, she had a pretty good idea of the weapon her program colleagues would operate, but who was Rose to stop them? She was nobody. A teenager from the smallest city in the FRA, not even a college grad. And Weber had orchestrated her removal, anyway. She had no influence, couldn’t raise the issue with her former classmates.

She didn’t even know where Martin hid the weapon. Because with something that huge, that powerful, no doubt it was hidden well. Which made stopping him feel way more impossible.

How Darcy and Michael could play cards and relax baffled Rose. Stress nearly choked the breath from her, leaving Rose paralyzed by her inability to prevent the impending disaster headed toward them all.

If she couldn’t even stop a militia in her own city, how could she stop the FRA’s Supreme Commander from annihilating another nation?

She couldn’t.

As that truth sank in, Rose rested her head on her knees. What could one person do? Nothing. Frustration filled Rose with everything swirling around her.

34

Sam walked along the dark riverfront ahead of Jason, the pair dodging around overgrown shrubs and trees. He supposed this used to be a beautiful addition to a thriving and free city. But no one except patrols came here anymore. No citizens could travel its meandering path and marvel at the powerful river to the south. A tugboat and barge floated alongside the Central Dock, Junior’s yacht occupying prime real estate in the first bay.

Jason shouldn’t be surprised Junior was still here. Why did Junior, the mighty cabinet member, bother with Queenstown? Whatever his ends with the militia were, their success felt inevitable. All Queenstown patrols could do was react, and they only had access to a handful of two areas’ patrols. Ivory and Obsidian. Foster thought the captains in Havana and Little Asia were collaborating with Junior and his militia.

Traitors inside the patrols.

Jason never thought he’d see the day when the power-wielders in their society turned against the city’s government. But here they were.

“You okay back there?” Sam said, turning to look over his shoulder at Jason.

“We should’ve tried to get inside the militia base when they were meeting. I had the chance, and I didn’t take it.”

“And how would you have done that and not gotten caught? That place crawled with militia members. Guards were posted outside the one working door. Sentries rotated around the building.”

“I could’ve figured it out if I’d just brainstormed a little longer.”

Sam scoffed. “No, I disagree. You can’t stop your father alone, you know that, right?”

It was Jason’s turn to scoff. “That doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

“Recipe for disaster, that’s what that is,” Sam muttered as he turned to face forward again. “It’s quiet here,” Sam said.

“What do you think Junior’s going to do?”

“Maybe he’ll try to assassinate Mr. Kim to set Britwell in as mayor. But Grace, Chul, and a few other Little Asian operatives are guarding him. Thank God Rose decoded her mom’s journals and Marcos found Abuela and I,” said Sam. “I’d like to see those pufferdoons try to get close to Mayor Kim with Grace and Chul on the job.”

“Chul’s a good guy,” said Jason. “Personally, I’d be more afraid of Grace after she took Roberto down.” Chul had tried to protect Rose but failed. Would he fail in this, too? Unlike Sam, Jason couldn’t help but wonder if the Little Asian patrolman was up to the task.

“There’s nothing down here. Let’s report in,” said Sam, drawing his communicator to his lips and relaying their status. The cool female voice of the night’s dispatcher called them back to Ivory.

“Let’s move, then,” said Sam, leading the way ahead of Jason, who dragged his feet through the silent and dark central area toward the Ivory gate.

Not knowing what Hudson Britwell and Junior had planned was sheer torture. Trying to expect every possibility had run Ivory patrols ragged, including Jason. He hadn’t been to HQ in days and missed his friends. Of course, he’d also barely slept. Worry consumed his waking and resting thoughts. Tonight would be more of the same. Tossing and turning, trying to penetrate Hudson’s or Junior’s thinking. But how could anyone get inside an evil person’s mind unless they were evil themselves? That task seemed impossible.

35

Rose woke up to someone shaking her shoulder. The familiar touch had her vaulting out of bed and into her mother’s arms before she smacked her mother’s biceps.

“Where in Martin’s macrocosm have you been?” she shouted, then cringed at the sleeping women around her turning in their beds. “Sorry, let’s take this to the training room,” she whispered to her mom.

When they exited the dorm room into the hallway, Sophie tugged Rose into her arms again. Her mother’s familiar jasmine scent mingled with the smell of fresh spring rain.

“I’m so sorry, Rose,” said Sophie.

The trauma of the last season without her mom overwhelmed Rose, wracking her body with sobs. She never cried in front of her mother, nor did they hug. But her mom tightened her arms around Rose, pressing Rose’s head into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Sophie whispered again. “For everything. There’s so much I’ve done wrong.”

Rose’s eyes widened as she withdrew from the hug, realizing both she and her mother were now drenched. Rose dried her eyes, and her face flushed.

“I’m so mad at you I could stomp all over this hallway right now. But I’m also relieved you’re back and not dead — or worse, captive to Britwell or Junior or Martin. Plus, I—” How did Rose say she needed to hear what her mother was sorry for without sounding like she was demanding an apology? Ugh, this emotional stew wasn’t very flavorful.

“Come on, forget about the training room. Let’s go to the conference room where we won’t be overheard,” her mother said. “I promise to tell you everything.”

Rose’s brows climbed at that, and she rushed ahead of her mother. Everything. What did that mean with Sophie Chen?

When they reached the conference room, Sophie closed the door and relaxed against it with an exhale.

“For real? Everything?” Rose could hardly believe she’d heard that word out of her mother’s mouth.

“Yes — well as much as I can, anyway.”

Rose acknowledged that some secrets might be over her operative level within the Underground. That some things had to be guarded so closely that only a handful of leaders knew the truth.

Her mother closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, then sat in the nearest chair.

“Did you just get here?” Rose asked.

Sophie nodded. “It was a harrowing journey. Far worse than I expected.”

Dread filled Rose. What else could go wrong? Everything she’d found out already overwhelmed Rose, but add this other element? Sludge filled her veins at having to figure out something else. “Well, thanks then for waking me up and not just going to bed,” Rose said. “I’m not sure I want to hear what you encountered.”

“We can’t avoid it. That won’t solve anything. I couldn’t go to bed without talking to you. Not after everything I’ve recently realized. It’s beyond important. It’s life-threatening. All we’ve built with the Underground is in danger,” said Sophie, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Sophie linked her hands together, rubbing one inside the other, as if she were washing her hands without soap.

Rose settled into a chair and stared at her mother. Rose had never seen her mother so anxious. Weren’t Junior and Britwell and their militia enough? Wasn’t the sono-nuclear bomb enough? What else could pile on their shoulders?

Sophie dropped her palms to the table. “Let me start at the beginning. I’ve been an Underground operative since before you were born. When Mr. Kim was elected mayor, I became his secretary and we began working together. Did you decode my journals?”

“Only a few days ago. And then I couldn’t find Tío or Grace. Since I can’t exactly go back to Little Asia, there’s no one to warn Mr. Kim that his life is in danger. I told Abuela, and she promised to find someone to warn him.”

Her mother grimaced. “Tío was here earlier, when I first arrived. We’ll track him down after I get a few winks of sleep. He’s probably collapsed from exhaustion in the men’s dormitory.”

Her mother rolled her shoulders backward, making Rose realize how thoroughly exhausted she must be. “Good job on the journals, too. I knew you could do it. You understand when I overheard Junior and Hudson Britwell, I had to flee. The only problem was they saw me. I escaped Central — their people tried to run me down in some enormous vehicle — and made it into Little Asia.”

Rose gasped, then immediately wondered if she’d actually been inside that same vehicle, given who was involved.

Sophie frowned, but continued. “But you know now how not-safe I was inside my own area. I had to flee quickly. I used the other tunnel entrance to sneak into our tower without using the lobby, went back to our condo. You weren’t there, so I left one final entry. I knew I had limited time. Britwell must have an operative or collaborator inside Little Asian patrols. I was heading into the mechanical room when I heard them in our lobby.”

“I was at Amy’s. That was the night before the big announcement, and we were doing classwork, then I spent the night,” Rose said.

“I figured that’s where you’d be, and hoped you didn’t walk in on patrols looking for me. I left the last message in my journal and hoped against all hope you’d find them and that you wouldn’t be able to leave the puzzle unsolved. I’m glad I know you so well,” Sophie said.

Rose digested everything her mother had said, remembering how upset she’d been at her mother’s not coming to her program announcement. But now, that made so much sense. If Britwell, who’d been present at her announcement, had seen Sophie, her mother would be in patrols custody. Or worse — dead.

“I forgive you for missing my announcement,” said Rose. A burden lifted off her shoulders and Rose exhaled loudly. All that anger she’d been carrying for weeks evaporated.

“Thank you,” Sophie said, wiping a tear off her cheek. She dropped her hands into her lap.

“When I brought our leadership here into Britwell and Junior recruiting a militia, there was division. Some wanted to confront Britwell and Junior directly. Some wanted to convince our national headquarters to send help. Rich and I left on our own one night. Took matters into our hands to try to get help.” That Sophie had managed to convince the only full-time resident at HQ, Rich, to go with her told Rose how serious most of the Underground leadership considered Junior’s threat.

Oh, Rose wished they’d confronted Junior and Britwell directly. Maybe Rose wouldn’t have ended up in their clutches, surviving torture. But she’d tell her mother about that after Rose heard everything else. No need to open another can of news when they still had a full one to consider. “Where did you go?”

Sophie rubbed her face again, but this time she wiped away tears trailing down her cheeks. “Underground National HQ in the lush, green mountains east of here, inside the supposedly dead lands.”

Why was her mom crying if the place was so beautiful?

“But wait, if you’re back, that means Rich is too,” said Rose, vaulting out of her chair, ready to find Michael. If she’d felt relief at seeing her mother alive after only a few weeks of Sophie being gone, Rose couldn’t imagine how joyful Michael would be to see the father he’d thought was dead for years.

“His son, Michael, is here. Let’s go get him, now!” Rose raced toward the door, but Sophie blocked her progress.

“Michael has been alive this entire time?” her mother asked, resting her hand on Rose’s shoulder.

“He and his mother ended up in the labor camp outside of Queenstown, the same one my friend Marcos got sent to. But he said his mother died years ago. It’s so sad he lost a parent in those awful conditions.”

Sophie exhaled a long sigh and dropped her chin a notch. “Rich is dead.” Sophie’s eyes filled with tears again, and she gripped Rose’s upper arms. “Murdered by two of our national leadership who turned on us.”

Rose gasped and plopped into the nearest chair, Sophie’s hands dropping to her sides.

“Rich is dead?” Rose said. “Oh no. Michael.”

Rose’s hand flew to cover her mouth. Michael had waited and waited for his father to return, ready to surprise him with the joyful news that he’d survived the labor camp. Now that would never happen.

***

After digesting the shock of her mother’s tale, Rose decided there was no rush to tell Michael about his father. Let her friend get a full night’s sleep before hearing his father hadn’t made it back. Even if carrying that weight twisted her insides with the grief he’d be experiencing.

Rose was surprised at how his colleagues’ murder of Rich hurt her. Backstabbed. Betrayed. She hadn’t known Rich well and had shared only a few brief conversations. But now, anger gripped her throat so tightly, she could hardly breathe.

“Are the murderers dead? Please say you all caught them and made them suffer,” said Rose, needing more details. When she finally saw Junior face-to-face, Rose would make him suffer, too. Or she’d die trying.

Sophie hung her head. “The community down there works differently than anything you probably know. They vote on how to handle things.” Sophie paused, raising her gaze to meet Rose’s.

The naked anger and grief Rose saw in her mother’s expression caused Rose to inhale a breath.

“But you probably need to hear everything that happened. When we arrived, I noticed murmuring and gossip, which wasn’t normal. That alone alerted both Rich and I that all was not well. Then we discovered a supposed operative had escaped a labor camp outside Martinsburg and made his way to the National Headquarters. This is almost certainly not possible, but two of the leaders, Sera and Charles, embraced the man with open arms.”

Rose blanched at the confirmation that labor camps likely existed outside of every FRA city. The Martin regime certainly had a lot to answer for. But she waved for her mom to continue.

“Rich was suspicious of the two leaders, so he followed them one night. They met with the escaped operative, whom the community had decided to house in a holding shed. I had followed Rich, but stayed back, concealed in the woods. When Rich confronted them all, the escaped operative murdered him in cold blood.”

Tears leaked onto her mother’s cheeks, and Rose wrapped an arm around her. Watching someone you clearly loved be killed had to cut deeply. Sophie took a few deep breaths and her trembling slowed.

“Then I followed them as they hauled Rich’s body up to a cliff and over the edge. I stayed out all night, afraid for my life and wondering whom I could trust. But then I ran into Hugh, Britain’s ambassador to the Underground, and told him what had happened. The two of us convinced the other leaders to go after Sera and Charles.”

Rose gripped her mother’s forearm, riveted by what her mother had been through and so thankful she’d had this Hugh guy. “Tell me you all caught them.”

“Not exactly,” Sophie said, casting her eyes downward. “They caught me first. Drugged me. Kidnapped me and took me to a remote cave.”

Rose gasped and her heart stuttered at the revelation that they both had been kidnapped and held against their will. What were the odds? And that they’d both escaped? Rose took a few deep breaths in and out, but her mother had continued on with her story.

“Joe — that’s the man who murdered Rich and I’m convinced is a regime operative — was supposed to kill me. But thankfully, Hugh had trailed Charles and he overpowered Joe. That awful man is dead. A wild pursuit ensued after that. Sera and Charles did everything they could to avoid justice. When we finally captured them and they stood trial before the community, I was so hopeful they’d be executed for everything. I wanted justice for Rich.

“But the community didn’t do that,” Sophie said, her voice falling into a low tone.

“How could they let them live?” said Rose. If not for Rich, then for her mother, Rose desperately wanted those two to die.

Sophie held her hand up. “Remember I said they do things differently down there? The community voted to leave Sera and Charles chained inside the cave’s holding cell, without food or water. Then the community abandoned their home to come here,” Sophie said.

“But that means Sera and Charles can escape.” Rose vaulted to her feet. “Let’s go back there and deal with them.”

Sophie tugged Rose into her seat. “Believe me, I wasn’t okay with it, but I had no say. Rich was like the brother I never had, and his death hit me hard. Still is hitting me hard.” Sophie dropped her head onto her folded elbows on the table. “But we have far more important issues to handle than Sera and Charles escaping their cage.”

Sophie rubbed a hand down her face, and Rose noticed it came away wet, yet again. She’d never seen her mother cry so much in her whole life, not even when Grandma Angie died. Rose shifted to wrap an arm around her mother’s shoulders.

“Two more names to add to the enemy list,” Rose said, her nose buried in her mother’s wet and stringy hair. “This makes me mad, too. Mom, I’m sorry you had to endure all that.”

Rose drew her mother into her arms. How had they had almost parallel experiences while away from each other? Rose hadn’t been drugged, but she’d definitely had no say in her kidnapping. Maybe more than her mother realized, Rose could identify with the milieu of emotions stewing inside Sophie. Grief at Rich’s death. Anger at the other leaders’ betrayal. Relief at being rescued from a life-or-death situation. Fear at what could be coming.

Sophie’s breathing evened out, and she lifted her head, not moving out of Rose’s embrace.

“I never expected this — for you to be comforting me,” said Sophie. “I’m the mom. I’m the one who held you when you were little and kissed the boo-boos.”

“Yeah, you did,” said Rose. That time was a distant memory. Rose had operated independently of her mother for years. Perhaps that hadn’t been her mom’s preference, though? Maybe Rose burying her head in her textbooks had been more about Rose avoiding things than about Sophie not wanting to include Rose?

“I know I’m not the easiest to live with,” Rose said, stopping at Sophie’s chuckle and fond smile. “But can we try to do this thing together? This Underground thing? Mom, you’re the only family I have. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

Sophie enveloped Rose in a tight hug. “I’d love to do this with you. It would be my honor, my smart, brave daughter.”

Rose’s tears fell from her eyes, and she did nothing to stop them. She’d tell her mom all about freeing the labor camp, then being kidnapped, and her escape later. Right now, this — a renewed relationship with her mother — was way more important. War could wait.

***

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms. Rose took comfort from her mom and gave it back freely. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d hugged. Had it been before Grandma Angie had died? Had Rose’s grief been the impetus for her own isolation?

Having watched Darcy and Marcos grieve the loss of their friend, Win, in such dramatically different ways made Rose realize that perhaps she’d buried her own grief. Grandma Angie’s death had hit Rose like a ton of bricks, and Rose remembered the mental fog she’d carried around for weeks afterward. It was only through immersing herself in physics that Rose had started eating and sleeping again. Had that set up a not-so-healthy pattern of relating with her mom? Probably.

Rose sighed. “I think I’ve been pushing you away for so long,” she said, releasing her mother.

Sophie cradled Rose’s cheeks in her hands. “I knew you loved me. But I also knew you needed academics. I watched the other kids make fun of you, but when you excelled in school, you were happy. I guess I should’ve questioned the hours you spent in your textbooks, but they seemed to satisfy you in a way nothing else did.”

“I think they did,” said Rose, grabbing her mother’s hands and removing them. “But I’m not sure that was smart of me. I neglected our relationship for far too long.”

“I did, too,” her mother said. “Immersed myself in work and trying to save the world. But why are you living here?”

Rose gasped and flew to her feet. “Your arm! Your chip!”

“Already removed,” said Sophie, brandishing the new stitches where her ID chip had been removed. “As soon as I approached the warehouse and saw the sentries, I knew something was up. They immediately took me elsewhere and removed the chip. I’m glad you all figured that out.”

“Me, too. But I didn’t figure anything out. Sam and Jason relayed Foster’s concern for the freed labor camp prisoners.”

Her mother’s forehead wrinkled, and Rose smacked herself internally. Sophie had left before Jason had joined the Underground.

“You mentioned Michael and a Marcos, who must be a Havana operative, ended up in a labor camp outside the city,” Sophie asked. “So that Joe guy wasn’t exaggerating about the labor camps? We wondered if he made it up. The Underground had only heard rumors.”

Rose sat next to her mom. “There were actually three labor camps outside Queenstown. After Marcos got sent to one and another friend, Jason from Ivory, was appointed its director, we freed it.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. “What? I’m going to need you to start at the beginning. It sounds like you’ve had a wild month, too.”

Rose grinned. It was nice to have eventful news of her own to share. She explained everything that had gone down since her mother had fled Queenstown.

“That’s so much, but fits in with what I learned. Has anyone figured out what the warehouse across from the CAB is? All those computers?”

“So I think I know,” Rose said. Rose told her mother about being “arrested” from her condo after her discovery of the physics behind the sonic walls. Then how, while Junior was interrogating her, he’d let slip about a sono-nuclear weapon and that had let Rose make connections with her program.

“What? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Sophie patted Rose’s arms and torso, as if searching for an injury.

Rose shrugged. “I’m okay now. He interrogated me. That included waterboarding and some electrical thing. A few slaps. But I held.” A tired smile crossed her face. She was proud of herself for surviving, but knew the memories lingered in the depths of her mind.

“But back to the important stuff. So, our program — I think — is building or will be operating a missile or rocket outfitted with a weapon. Nuclear technology combined with sonic amplification. I just figured out how that all could work in tandem but have no clue about measuring the impact. All I know is the destruction would be far greater than a nuclear weapon alone, beyond the scope of any known weapon.”

“Whoa. That’s an enormous weapon,” her mother said. “But the warehouse with all the networked servers? Does that fit in?”

“Oh, I thought that was self-explanatory when I mentioned the missile. The regime would need massive computing power to launch a missile into low-earth orbit, let alone a targeted delivery. That warehouse is mission-control for the launch.”

Sophie rocked back into her chair, her arms limp in her lap. “A missile makes complete sense. But why does Britwell need to be mayor?”

“Perhaps Mr. Kim was asking too many questions? Or Junior has his own plans and needs Britwell in charge here? Maybe both? Who knows.”

“We have to bring Alejandro and Mr. Kim in now.” Her mother pushed herself to stand.

Why had her mom called Tío by his real name? Everyone in the Underground called him Tío, or “uncle” in Nuevo Havana. Rose tilted her head and looked at her mother.

“Is there something else you’re not telling me?”

Just like Rose had no clue of Sophie’s and Rich’s close friendship, she also didn’t understand why Tío and her mom were so close.

Sophie grimaced and crossed her arms. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you absolutely everything I know. I hate to say this to you, Rose, but you’re going to have to trust me. Not all my secrets are mine alone.”

Rose frowned but knew her mother was right. The Underground probably guarded layers of secrets. And similar to not everyone knowing Mr. Kim was the head of the Underground in Queenstown, there were likely far more secrets Rose couldn’t yet know.

She nodded. “About Tío and Mr. Kim. It’s the middle of the night, Mom. Why don’t you go get a hot shower, and I’ll find you some fresh clothes. From everything I saw in that warehouse, Junior’s militia isn’t ready. If they go in as green as they are, patrols will mow them down without a contest.”

“Unless Junior and Britwell overwhelm them with numbers because they have a few patrol captains in their back pocket.”

Rose grunted. “You might have a point about that. The militia were training intensely and have loads of weapons. After my escape, I wonder if they’ll rush things, fearing I’ll tattle on them to patrols. But how would I get back into Little Asia? Our area is crawling with traitors, and Captain Romel is firmly in Britwell’s back pocket. I don’t know why, but he allowed my arrest.”

“Walls’ balls,” her mother said before clamping a hand over her mouth. “I knew I didn’t like Romel. That’s low, siding with Britwell, who’s never done anything positive for Little Asia.”

Sophie yawned, her hand covering her wide-opened mouth. Always the polite one, despite having let a curse word slip. That was her mother through and through.

“You go shower,” Rose said, standing up and steering her mother toward the door with a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll find you some clothes.”

Her mother smiled back at Rose. “I can’t wait to see everyone when I’m awake enough to appreciate it. I had never met Moses until tonight. I bet Tío was thrilled to finally meet his father.”

“He was, though evidently Tío knew about the labor camps. Made his mama super mad when she heard that.”

Sophie pressed her lips together. “He holds information tightly, that’s for sure.”

Rose raised an eyebrow. Had Tío kept that nugget even from the other leaders? It seemed very possible. “I’m realizing a lot of people have secrets around here.”

Her mother turned to face Rose and grasped her hands. “I’ll work on that from here on out. At least with you. And I promise to loop you in as soon as I can. You’re still new in the Underground, and yet you know way more than the typical new operative. I’ll need to clear a few things with other leaders. I hope you understand?”

Rose waited a beat before answering. “That’s all I can ask. Please don’t leave me out. You’re the only family I have.”

Her mom smiled broadly and squeezed Rose’s hands before releasing them. “Now how about those dry clothes you promised to find?”

Rose headed for the closet where extra clothing and towels lived, while her mother steered toward the women’s dormitory. They’d built trust tonight. It was a start, but they had a way to go before Rose would trust her mother completely again.

36

Rose paced the training room, the large space doing nothing to dispel the anxiety and fear gripping her. She’d figured out a few things. The warehouse and the eventual goal of her program seemed far off, but all too real. The more immediate problem, though, was Junior and Britwell’s militia. They wanted to control Queenstown. But how far would they go to achieve that?

And why didn’t Junior, a cabinet member, just tell Supreme Commander Martin the Queenstown mayor needed to be replaced? Why go to the trouble of recruiting and training an entire militia?

The door to HQ slammed open, the boom of metal hitting concrete echoing through the hallway and into the training room.

“They took him!” a female voice yelled. Grace sprinted into the training room. When she saw Rose, her face fell.

“Where is everyone?” Grace asked, her face flushed and her hair flying every which way as she scanned the deserted room.

Rose shrugged. “Mostly asleep. What’s happening?”

“Havana and Little Asian patrols came and took Mr. Kim to the CAB for a middle of the night meeting with the Secretary of State. I didn’t even realize Gonzalez was still in Queenstown. But what could Peter Kim do? Nothing. They had Chul and I at gunpoint. No handcuffs or zip ties, like he had a choice. Mrs. Kim sent me here, and Chul went to find Abuela and Moses.”

“What did I miss?” Tío barreled into the training room, his eyes locking first on Rose, then on Grace.

“Where have you been? I’ve looked for you everywhere. Junior and Britwell have launched their takeover of Queenstown. Patrols escorted Mayor Kim to the CAB under a summons from the Secretary of State. How long ago was it, Grace?” Rose said.

She checked her watch. “About thirty minutes ago. I sprinted here.” Grace doubled over, still breathing hard.

“We have to rescue them,” said Rose, turning to Tío. “We can’t let them take out our leadership. There’s more Junior’s planning — I just know it even if I haven’t figured it all out yet. We’re the only ones who can stop Junior.” Rose debated mentioning the sono-nuclear weapon, but Grace being present held her back. Maybe she understood why her mom kept some things secret, even from her own daughter.

Tío scrunched his eyebrows together and stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, staring at her. “What are you talking about?” He leaned in.

“I’ve been trying to find you for days,” said Rose, her voice quiet. “I can elaborate later, after we’ve rescued Peter Kim and the other council members, but Martin is developing a major weapon. Something that could wipe out half a nation with one bomb. And Junior wants it — or at least the ability to control it. This is only his first step.”

Tío shook his head. “That’s a lot to take in. But what’s this about a first step?”

Chul raced into the training room, Abuela, Moses, and a long line of refugees behind them. Rose nodded at Marcos, Darcy, and Michael, who joined her.

“We have plenty of people,” Abuela said. “But we need to arm them. And now.”

“What are we waiting for, then?” Rose asked as she moved toward the firing range. “Darcy, Michael, Marcos, come with me and help hand out weapons and ammo.”

“Will someone explain what in Martin’s macrocosm is happening?” Tío’s voice booming through the room.

“You get everyone a weapon,” said Abuela, smiling gently at Rose, “while I bring my son up to speed.”

Abuela wrapped an arm around Tío’s shoulders and huddled with him and Moses, as Rose turned away toward the firing range and their weapons.

“I wish Harriet were here with us,” Marcos said as he walked beside Rose into the firing range.

“Me too,” said Darcy. “But Marc, she’s on her own path. You need to let her figure this out. We didn’t have a choice. We wanted freedom, so we had to fight. It’s not a lack of courage on her part, but concern for her family. And I get it. I don’t think my mom’s still alive, but if she were I’d fight tooth and nail to keep her safe.”

Rose hummed her agreement. After her conversation with her mother, Rose would’ve said almost exactly the same thing. Family was important. Marcos’s family was still so broken, and maybe that was a tough concept for him to accept. But if Flavia were the one at risk? Her amigo would box into a pulp whoever threatened Flavia.

Marcos handed a patrol-issued revolver and ammo to a camp refugee, who passed it along to someone else. Rose funneled guns and ammo to waiting hands until everyone assembled had some sort of weapon. She then unlocked the special cabinet and lifted the scoped rifles, waving Moses and Marcos over to join her.

“Moses and Marcos, I think you two need these beauties,” said Rose, handing the sniper rifles to the two men.

Moses whistled. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a work of art this gorgeous.” He turned to Abuela, who had entered the firing range with Tío right behind her. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a Remington hanging out here?”

Abuela joined them with a chuckle. “I knew I’d never see you again. You’d be in here every minute of every day.” She turned to Rose. “How did you know what that was?”

“Jason told me. I figured an ex-military man would know what to do with it. But after we’ve saved our city, you’re teaching me,” she said to Moses.

“I like how you think, Mija,” said Abuela, turning to Moses with her brows lifted. He dipped his head in a nod.

Rose jumped up and down. “That alone makes everything we’re about to face today worth it. Now, what’s the plan?”

All eyes turned to Tío, who shoved his revolver into a hip holster.

As Tío shared his plan to assault the CAB and take out those holding the city council, doubt and an idea both wormed into Rose's brain, competing for her attention. Wouldn’t patrols beat them to Central? And if so, why wouldn’t they arrest or kill the Underground operatives, mistaking them for the militia?

But the idea overshadowed her doubts, and Rose knew how she could prevent all that and deal head-on with Britwell and Junior. It was time to collect her mother and do something together. For once.

37

“Ican’t believe we are going right back there,” Sam said.

“What did we miss?” Jason vaulted ahead of his patrol partner as they raced through the Ivory gate into the night-darkened Central Area behind a line of Ivory patrol officers.

“Nothing. Maybe we were too early, though,” said Sam.

Jason and Sam had reached the Ivory patrol offices when the guard at the gate into Central radioed to tell them Hudson Britwell and a contingent of armed guards — not patrol officers — had Andrew Stewart in an SUV. The officer had opened the gate under threat of execution, then barely escaped being gunned down. His partner hadn’t been so fortunate.

Jason stared at the man’s remains, which didn’t yet buzz with flies, thankfully, with a shake of his head. This was real. All too real. When he, Sam, Harriet, and Marcos had cased his father’s militia training facility, Jason had a vague idea of what they were capable of, but Jason had never imagined they’d take out trained and armed patrol officers so easily. Jason itched to know how they’d gotten into Ivory. Probably yet another traitor. Definitely not via the cliff with their SUV.

Foster passed them on a hover cycle, Smitty fast on his tail as they peeled off to meet up with the Obsidian patrols under Captain Johnson’s command. The two areas' patrols would be all the help they had tonight and, in fact, would likely have to guard their six against Havana or Little Asian patrol traitors coming to aid Junior and Britwell’s militia on orders from their traitorous patrol captains.

Smitty and an Obsidian patrol officer motioned their respective forces over to where Foster and Johnson stood with their heads together, arms waving as if sketching in the air. Perhaps they were. Jason counted Ivory and Obsidian heads, his gut falling when he realized how few officers they had to work with.

How many militia fighters did his father have? Jason wished, once again, he’d gotten inside to provide an accurate count of their opposition. As it was, they were heading in somewhat blind. At least they knew the militia had access to the same weaponry and uniforms as the patrols.

“Sam and Jason, go scout the CAB, see what we’re up against,” Foster ordered them.

Jason wiped sweat from his forehead before saluting his captain. It wasn’t that hot, but sprinting to patrol offices and back into Central twice was a serious workout. He yearned for the cool temps of spring again, but it seemed summer had finally descended with a heat wave on Queenstown.

“Xavier and Ronny, go with them,” Johnson said, pointing to an Obsidian Underground operative, Xavier, and a man Jason had to presume wasn’t in the Underground.

“Let’s go,” said Sam.

“Hello,” said Xavier. “I’ll take point. Can one of you take the rear?” Xavier gestured to Jason and Sam.

“I got it,” said Jason. “I’m Jason and that’s Sam. Figured we should know each other if we’re going into a battle together.” Pretending they didn’t all know each other would stretch Jason’s minuscule acting ability.

“I’m Ronny,” the taller of the two Obsidian officers said. “That’s Xavier, but we call him ‘X’ so you can, too. Now, no more talking. Let’s go scout this situation.”

The four ducked through shadows and darted across silent streets, approaching the CAB from the west. When they’d reached the guarded warehouse across the street, Ronny looked back at Jason with his hands up, as if to say, “what is that about?”

Jason shook his head and waved them toward the CAB. He couldn’t explain, but that warehouse posed no threat to them tonight, if Rose was right. If anything, those guards might be allies if they played it right.

Xavier led them down the last street and paused at the corner. He cursed under his breath and waved for Jason to come look. “What are those?” Xavier asked in a whisper.

“Those are troop transport trucks,” said Jason, pulling Xavier back from the corner so the four could huddle. He connected gazes with the two Obsidian officers and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Those trucks can transport up to thirty people each. With three of them here, we should expect up to ninety armed militia.”

“Walls’ balls. We’re dead,” said Ronny, covering his face with one hand. “We’re outnumbered three-to-one.”

“Hey, we’re trained. Let’s focus on using our training to penetrate their defenses. There’s only two ways in and out of this building,” Sam said.

“To the back loading dock, then. This way,” said Jason, sprinting back the way they’d come, then veering two streets over. Jason cut toward the river walk path where they could scout the rear loading dock.

“How do you know your way around here so well?” Ronny asked Jason.

Jason eyed the Obsidian patrol officer and grimaced. “I’m Jason Britwell. Don’t shoot me. But I’ve been coming to Central for years with my pufferdoon of a father, Hudson Britwell. Plus Foster had us patrolling down here for days now, waiting for my dad to make his move.”

“Wall's balls, that’s nuts,” Ronny said, eyeing Xavier.

Jason watched Ronny grip his revolver more tightly and held his breath. Would Ronny kill Jason before Jason had the chance to deal with his father’s treason directly? Sam edged in front of Jason, but Jason pushed his partner to the side. Jason appreciated his partner’s vote of confidence, but he could handle this guy.

“It’s ok,” Xavier said, pushing his partner’s revolver toward the ground. Jason released the pent-up breath he’d held. “Captain Johnson told us Jason would be here, remember?”

Ronny clenched his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest, still gripping his revolver tightly. “Maybe I didn’t quite believe that anyone named “Britwell” would be on our side, seeing what his father’s up to.” Ronny shrugged, his gaze swinging back to Jason’s. “Glad you’re with us, but if you so much as hint you’re not, you’re dead.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Jason said, locking gazes with Ronny.

Jason tried to infuse every drop of truth in his soul into his words. The last thing he needed was a bullet in the back from a friendly.

“Well, now that’s out of the way, we have a job to do,” said Sam, leaving Jason’s side and heading across the street, hugging the building’s wall, then darting across to the winding riverwalk a hundred yards away. When they were hidden by the shadows of dense trees and shrubs, Sam crouched and crawled forward, Xavier on his heels. Jason and Ronny stood guard, both their heads on a swivel and their ears tuned to any noises.

Xavier and Sam reappeared several minutes later, Sam’s jaw clenched and Xavier’s lips turned down in a frown.

Sam held a finger to his lips and led them back the way they’d come.

“It’s bad,” Xavier said once they were concealed by a nearby building.

“We have to get back to report, but the odds are stacked against us,” said Sam. “If we counted correctly — and taking into account the militia members inside — we’re outnumbered as bad as we thought.”

“Walls’ balls,” Jason said. “But we’ve faced this before.”

Ronny raised his eyebrows, but Jason shook him off. “I can’t elaborate. But this can be done. Let’s get back.”

The four sprinted to where their captains had divided their patrol officers into small platoons, most tapping their feet or wringing hands. If anxiety were a substance, Jason could cut through it tonight with a knife.

Sam and Xavier briefed their respective captains on what they’d seen. Captain Johnson cursed while Foster merely nodded.

“We knew it would be bad,” said Foster to Johnson. “I told you about Jason and Sam here, discovering the militia’s warehouse and how many they saw that night.”

“The biggest problem is how we’ll distinguish us from them,” Smitty said.

“We already thought of that, so thanks for that bit of intel,” Johnson said, nodding to one of his officers who passed out yellow pieces of cloth. “Tie these around your upper right arm. It’s all we’ve got, since you say they have our uniforms.”

“Sir,” said Jason. “Given how many of them there are, should we call the driver corps in? They learn how to handle weapons, right? I know it’s Havana, but perhaps only the patrols there are corrupt?”

Every patrol officer knew the drivers were armed. It was how drivers went from one area of the city to another without getting their weapon confiscated. But the revolvers were supposed to stay inside the truck’s glove box and only be used for cross-country routes.

Foster rubbed his chin. “Not a bad idea, if we’d thought of it days ago.”

“Yeah, too late for that,” Johnson echoed. “Our medics are on standby about a half mile from the CAB with a few of our units for protection. They’ll only enter the combat zone once we have the CAB in our control. Assemble with your units and let’s move in. Obsidian will take the back, Ivory the front. Let’s not kill each other in the crossfire, okay officers? Communicate with your field commander.”

Salutes echoed around as groups of four peeled off for their assigned assault position. Smitty directed Jason and Sam to join two other Ivory officers and to head to the west side of the CAB. It was time to rescue their city’s leaders and for Jason to stop his father from ruining everything.

38

Harriet placed the filled IV bag in the stack, then turned to see what else needed to be done. Captain Johnson had radioed Dara and ordered Obsidian medics to set up a mobile triage tent in Central. No one would answer her questions about what was happening, but Harriet had an ominous feeling about this whole thing. Especially after Dara had said to expect casualties and injuries.

Perhaps Junior and Britwell had finally made their move?

Memories of the militia warehouse floated to her mind, and her gut sank toward her toes. Harriet felt out of touch with the Underground, with her friends. But that had been her choice, right? She’d walked away, so she shouldn’t expect to know anything now.

She almost slapped her own cheek to clear those thoughts. Harriet needed to focus on the here and now. She had no time for regrets or second-guessing her decision to stay away from the Underground.

“What else can I do to help set up?” Harriet asked Dara, not wanting to look at the empty buildings around them too closely. They creeped her out and angered her, all at the same time. The camp refugees could be warm and secure in these buildings instead of living in the tunnels and sleeping on cold concrete. Harriet shook her head to clear the stray thoughts.

The lead medic pointed to a stack of gauze. “Roll these up and tape them together to make one long bandage that’s easy to roll. God, I wish we had more supplies. Dang it. No warning, no opportunity to order.” She grabbed a roll of clear medical tape. “Use this. When you’re done, move on to the IV poles, so we have a few IV’s ready to go. We need to prepare for every level of injury.”

“Got it.”

“Every level of injury” sounded dire and made Harriet think of the camp liberation, the battlefield sights and sounds disorienting her. She thought about how she’d followed Abuela. Then how she’d failed to save her fellow operative who’d been shot. The trucks had gotten away, presumably with Lin in charge. The same Lin she’d seen inside the militia warehouse. Her heartbeat sped up and her palms sweated.

But tonight, she wasn’t part of the fight. Harriet was a medic, focused on saving people, not on freeing them. She relaxed her shoulders and breathed deeply. She had to calm herself or this was going to be an eternal night.

Harriet walked to where the medics had set up two open tents with several tables each for supplies nearby a stack of rolling stretchers. They also had two-person carry cloth and wood pole stretchers, but everyone preferred the rolling kind. Plus, the mobile stretchers could transition into treatment stations if needed. They’d treat and release whoever they could and send the rest off in the Gator or the city’s lone ambulance to the Central Hospital.

Harriet stretched out the folded bandages on the clean tabletop, taping the ends together until she had one eight-foot-long piece, which she rolled into a tight cylinder. It wasn’t the best, but it was what they had to work with. Eyeing the dwindling stack of folded bandages, Harriet hoped they wouldn’t need too many of these longer rolls.

“Rat-tat-tat-tat” came the burst of gunfire, echoing through the streets and alleyways and off the tall towers of Central.

She dove under the metal table, curling herself into a ball, feeling far too exposed with nothing to block the bullets. Harriet felt like the battle surrounded her, the gunfire echoing in her chest and stealing her breath. The world narrowed in on Harriet, and all she could see was darkness everywhere.

Screams filled the air and Harriet felt hands on her back, pulling her out from under the table. Strange. The screaming stopped when she closed her mouth.

“Harriet! Harriet!” She stared at her supervisor and mentor. “It’s not near us! Harriet, are you ok?”

Harriet looked around and finally breathed again. Her voice quivered as she examined the medic tent and surrounding area. “No one’s shooting at us?”

Dara wrapped her in a tight embrace. The older woman’s strength settled Harriet as quickly as her own mother’s hug.

“That gave us all a scare, I understand why you dove for cover. But the battle isn’t close. Almost a half mile away probably. We’re hearing its echoes.”

Half a mile was nothing, though. She’d run further through the camp from the south gate to where all the refugees had gathered.

Dara released her and pointed toward the nearest intersection.

“See? Captain Johnson stationed a few patrol units to keep us safe. They’ll radio for help and get us clear of it, if they need to. But it’s ok. You’re safe.”

Her shoulders dropped with a loud exhale. Was she safe? Harriet didn’t feel that way. But perhaps whatever happened at the CAB wouldn’t expand or grow to include their medic station.

Harriet wiped her tears and knew her cheeks were flushed. “I’m so sorry. It’s just the gunfire scared me half to death.”

She forced out a chuckle, trying to calm her mind and to convince Dara not to send her away. Harriet wasn’t stupid. If Harriet was the one in charge, she’d send herself straight home. But intuition or an inner conviction compelled Harriet to stay. Almost like if she left now, nothing would go right. Harriet had a feeling her friends were involved in whatever happened in Central tonight. Who else but Britwell and Junior would try to pull off something so brazen as attacking the CAB? And who else but the Underground and their allies would fight against Britwell and Junior’s forces?

“Like I said, I get it,” said Dara. “The way they make us all watch those executions is awful. I nearly dove for cover myself. If I hadn’t been looking up to know there was no one toting a gun nearby, I probably would’ve.”

Harriet told herself not to react to Dara’s words, to breathe deeply in and out. “I’m ok, Dara, honestly.” Harriet clenched her fists. She was safe. At least, that’s what she told herself. A half mile was far enough to not get hit by a stray bullet.

Dara stepped back with a gentle smile. “You’re like my favorite niece, Harriet. Can’t have you freaking out on us. You’re too good at this.”

“Keep me busy. It’ll help, I promise. And I won’t freak out again,” Harriet said.

Another burst of gunfire echoed off the buildings, making them both flinch. Dara watched Harriet, but Harriet refused to cower again.

Dara turned away. “We need more rolled bandages, if we have enough of the regular to make it happen.” She fingered the stack. “Maybe make them half as long. Just in case we also need shorter rolls. Can always string two together.”

“Thanks, Dara.”

Dara gave her a crisp nod and walked away.

Harriet couldn’t bear the idea that one of her friends would get hurt and she couldn’t help them. Pushing her fears away, Harriet focused on her task, wondering where Marcos, Rose, Jason, Sam, and the others were.

39

The group of Underground operatives crept out of the tunnels into the basement of Rose’s tower. It was strange being back here again after weeks, either in Junior’s clutches or in hiding.

Tío held a finger to his lips and strode toward the lobby doors, her mother right behind him. Rose waited for his signal, remaining still and not shifting from one foot to another like many other operatives. She still couldn’t believe Michael had joined the team after Sophie and Moses had delivered the news that Rich had been murdered.

Or maybe she could. Michael looked ready to chew rocks. Maybe he needed to be part of taking down Junior and Britwell to feel like his father hadn’t died in vain? Regardless, Rose knew Darcy would watch over him, the two bonded more tightly in their grief.

But Rose was glad Amy had so readily agreed to stay behind and handle breakfast. That had freed up Abuela, who had insisted on coming.

Tío reappeared, his gas mask firmly in place, and waved them into the lobby.

Rose flipped her gas mask down over her face from her forehead, and led the group out of the hallway.

The operatives walked through the lobby, its guards disabled by sleeping gas in an old grenade. The Underground had kept the ancient riot control tools for years, hidden in the bowels of the firing range, in a cabinet no one ever accessed. Rose bet there were other fun non-lethal weapons hiding in there and couldn’t wait to poke around when they returned.

If they returned.

Death hovered in the air. Rose suspected even combining the Underground’s numbers with Ivory and Obsidian patrols, they’d still be outnumbered. Her one shining hope was the militia hadn’t had long to train, unlike both the patrols and most of the Underground operatives.

They emerged into the thick darkness of night, streetlights shut off long ago to conserve electricity. The operatives kept to the tall tower’s deeper shadows, ready to take out any Little Asian patrols they encountered. Rose hoped they didn’t run into any. There were a bunch of corrupt traitors inside her area’s patrols, but she suspected there were at least a few just doing their job.

As they approached the gate into Central, Grace and Chul took the lead, Rose and another Little Asian operative trailing behind them. Everyone else waited behind the gatehouse corner.

“Halt!” a voice called from inside the gatehouse as the muzzle of a patrol-issued rifle emerged, followed by its owner. “Who are you and where are you going? No one is admitted to Central Area tonight under the orders of Secretary Gonzalez.”

Rose’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead. So, not only was the secretary still around but also directing this entire operation? While Rose had heard Britwell reporting to Gonzalez way back when she’d still been in her program, the secretary hadn’t been at the warehouse or part of Rose’s torture. Perhaps Gonzalez was pulling the strings and directing things behind the scenes. Or did Junior just use Gonzalez’s power to accomplish his aims? Rose kept her finger poised on her revolver’s trigger.

“We are under the orders of Mayor Kim to attend a meeting in Central,” Grace said as she unfolded a summons. Of course, Mrs. Kim had forged the document after Little Asian patrols had taken Mr. Kim away.

Rose held her breath as the officer read the summons, then crumpled it up. His left hand returned to his rifle, but Rose’s draw was faster, her bullet hitting the man square in the forehead. The guard hadn’t collapsed to the ground before Grace vaulted into the gatehouse.

Rose entered the gatehouse behind Chul as Grace tackled a second patrol officer, wrestling his service weapon out of its hip holster. Chul held the man at gunpoint. The officer stilled, his eyes wider than tea saucers.

“Don’t kill me, please,” he said. “I have a wife and kids. I just work here and follow orders.”

Tío entered the gatehouse and held out a cloth soaked in a sleeping tonic. “Let’s lock him inside the closet. He’ll be out for hours. We can send someone back to deal with him when we arrest his boss.”

Chul held the cloth to the man’s nose, and the patrol officer was asleep in seconds.

“Whoa,” Rose whispered. “That was cool. Why have you been hiding all these toys from me?”

Tío chuckled. “You needed to hone other skills first. Let’s move. We’re running out of time.”

Chul grabbed the guard’s keys as operatives locked the man inside the closet. They opened the door into Central and tucked the keys into a nearby doorway, out of sight.

“Gather ‘round,” Tío said. “Let’s divide into groups. Moses, you and Marcos take a team of four to that warehouse across from the CAB. Get inside and be overwatch. Grace and Chul, you two take another team to the west.” He pointed to four other operatives, assigning one pair to guard the Little Asian entrance into Central and another to guard the Havana gate. “Rose, you’re with Sophie on the east side.”

Bonders. Rose had an idea that could end everything way sooner than Tío’s plan. But the east side would work for her purposes.

“How will we let the Obsidian and Ivory patrol officers know we are friendlies?” Rose asked.

Grace cursed. “She’s right. Why didn’t we think of that. Can anyone get in contact with Sam or Jason?”

“Nope.” Rose would’ve already alerted them if such a way existed.

“Then we hang back and only engage if patrols seem overwhelmed,” said Tío.

Rose snorted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Do you have a better plan?” Tío directed his question at her, and she felt the full impact of his disapproval.

He wouldn’t like her idea, but Rose knew a small team could pull it off. Now to convince her mother to join her.

Distant gunfire echoed through the buildings, making some operatives flinch or scan their surroundings.

Rose shrugged, grabbing her mother’s arm and waving off anyone else who looked like they wanted to come along. “Let’s just get going. Patrols have engaged the militia and will need our help.”

“Alejandro, join us,” Moses said. “You’re one of the best marksmen we have.”

Tío nodded his agreement, and everyone broke up into their respective teams. Rose and Sophie peeled off, avoiding the medic tent, where Rose hoped Harriet wasn’t working, and the Obsidian patrols base.

Rose tucked herself and her mother into an alcove and drew her mother close. “Do you trust me?”

Sophie pulled back and Rose felt her mother’s eyes on her. “Yes. Do you have a plan?”

“I sure do,” Rose said. “I know how to get into the conference room without going through the front door — or the back door. Let’s end this thing.”

Sophie pressed a hand into Rose’s back. “Lead on, then. We’re running out of time, if they haven’t already killed our leaders.”

Rose sprinted out of the alcove, weaving past empty warehouses as gunfire echoed around the empty buildings. Her mother’s trust in her made Rose feel like she could do anything, including take down their powerful enemies and save the Underground’s leaders.

40

“How do we get to the CAB from here?” Marcos asked as they left the other operatives, his gaze bouncing between Tío and Abuela.

“Follow me,” Tío said, taking off at a sprint. Marcos scrambled after him, turning back to make sure Moses and Abuela followed.

Tío raised a fist at the sound of gunfire nearby. “We’re two blocks away from the CAB.”

“What’s the plan, Marcos?” Abuela asked.

Marcos twisted his mouth and bit his inner cheek. “Hmm, let’s avoid patrols like Rose suggested. Maybe get a handle on their positions then take control of that warehouse across the street from the CAB.”

Marcos led the group out of the shadows, approaching the Ivory patrol’s position from behind as they engaged the militia fighters on the CAB portico. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see most of the militia until one was shot and fell down the portico steps onto the street. Moses tensed next to him at the same time as recognition dawned on Marcos.

“That was one of our camp guards. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m sure of it, too,” Marcos replied.

“Stupid,” Moses muttered under his breath. “You see that?” Moses pointed toward the rear entrance of the CAB, where dark figures ran toward the loading docks.

“They’re outnumbered and outgunned,” Abuela said from where she crouched at Marcos’s back.

“We need the high ground,” Tío inserted from Marcos’s side.

“You’re right,” Marcos said. “Let’s get into that warehouse. Anyone know which one it is from the north?”

“That’s the one,” Tío said, his finger pointing a few buildings down from where they hid.

Moses stood. “What’s the plan, General?”

Abuela chuckled as she stood, her knees cracking with the movement.

Marcos eyed her as they walked, quietly outlining his plan of attack.

Moses grinned. “Nothing like a classic flanking assault.”

“Simple, yet effective,” Tío answered.

Marcos’s heart lifted, some of the tension melting off his shoulders. He hoped that, unlike with Win, his efforts here wouldn’t be too little, too late. He couldn’t bear to lose any more friends.

Marcos and Tío swung around one street north of the building in a pincer move on the guards along the warehouse’s northern entrances.

Marcos signaled to Tío and felt his partner duck in behind him as they approached the southeast corner of the building across the street from their target. Peering down the building’s edifice, he saw Moses give him the signal for “ready.” Marcos held up five fingers with a nod and checked his weapon.

On the count of five, both sets of operatives erupted into the street. Marcos fired at the guard pacing in front of the massive semi-truck-sized loading dock on the north side of the building. Tío laid down next to him, providing covering fire. On the other side of the building, Moses and Abuela engaged the guard posted at the northwest entrance.

The guard on their side returned fire, forcing Tío to race around the building corner again and Marcos to duck behind a cement pylon. Shots echoed down the street, telling Marcos that Moses and Abuela were taking return fire as well.

Marcos heard a scream and darted behind a metal trash can, systematically blanketing the loading dock area with semi-automatic gunfire and laying down covering fire for Tío, who ran into position at the loading dock.

Marcos ejected his spent clip and reloaded, waiting for Tío’s signal. Gunfire sprayed Marcos’s position, and he paused, slowing his breathing, before he pivoted and sighted a leg. Marcos aimed and fired, a scream confirming his shot had found its mark. Tío exploded around the corner, tackling the now-writhing guard, so Marcos could zip tie him.

“Clear!” he shouted, stripping the guard of his weapons.

As Marcos approached, Tío tucked an extra revolver into his waistband, lifting the guard’s rifle to examine it. Marcos pointed out symbols sketched on the barrel. Tío handed him the weapon, and Marcos slung it over his shoulder.

“It’s Chinese writing,” Tío said, making Marcos wonder how a Havana driver recognized a script likely only seen in Little Asia. But Marcos shoved those questions aside. For now.

The rifle fired like any other. Marcos didn’t need to read the writing on the barrel to know that.

“Clear over there?” Marcos shouted.

“Clear!” Moses shouted back.

He and Tío dragged the guard behind a large metal cabinet, holding a soaked cloth over the man’s face.

“That should hold him. Ready, amigo?” Tío asked.

A spreading pool of blood around the sleeping guard’s leg drew his attention, and Marcos tore a strip off his t-shirt, binding the man’s wound. It wasn’t the best first aid, but it would suffice. He hoped the man lived to be interrogated. Marcos had questions.

Moses dragged the other guard next to his unconscious partner.

“Was he hit too?” Marcos asked Abuela.

“Arm. I bound it as best as I could.” She showed him a second rifle, just like the one slung on his back. “Marcos or Tío, have you ever seen guns like these?”

Marcos shook his head. “They aren’t patrol-issued. Tío says that’s Chinese, which I guess makes sense since they’re an ally of Martin’s. I think Rose is right about this warehouse being part of Martin’s weapon schemes. I can’t wait to get inside and see this place for myself.”

“Maybe we should find someplace else? What if there are more inside or they have traps in place?” Abuela asked.

“We don’t have a choice,” Marcos said as the battle on the other side of the building raged on, screams mingled with the cacophony of gunfire. “Let’s move. I’m on point. Moses take the rear.”

Raising his pistol and a flashlight, Marcos threw open the door and exploded into the darkened hallway inside. Marcos expected a fight, but dead quiet reigned. His nose tingled at the cold smell of dust and metal, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Marcos fumbled along the wall for a light switch and when he turned it on, his breath caught in his throat.

Row after row of metal cabinets filled with consoles of blinking lights greeted them. Marcos strode the length of the warehouse, peering down each row, ready for an attack. He’d never seen so much computing power in one place. It made his fingers itch to find a network station and dive in.

Rose had been right. This was absolutely launch control for Martin’s new weapon. They had to keep this place under Queenstown’s authority. No way would Marcos allow Martin to launch a nation-destroying weapon from here.

“Clear every room. I don’t want any surprises. And can we lock that door?” Marcos murmured.

Tío shut the door and flipped a few handles around. “Locked. Unless someone has a key.”

The four cleared the first floor, then ascended the metal stairs at the warehouse’s south end, emerging onto a metal walkway. Rooms at either end seemed suspended in air, but massive beams running the width of the warehouse and heavy metal poles supported the rooms. Tío and Marcos cleared the north end of the warehouse, while Moses and Abuela cleared the south end. Dusty offices greeted them, as if they had been unused for four decades. Marcos stifled his curiosity about the stacks of boxes upstairs and the cabinets of networking equipment downstairs. He longed to hack into the network and analyze every iota of data.

“Clear!” Abuela’s yell jarred Marcos to the present.

He and Tío jogged toward the south end, where they’d be able to see the CAB, the clang of their footfalls reverberating throughout the warehouse. Bright fluorescent overhead lights cast deep shadows between the rows of cabinets, making Marcos’s trigger finger itch.

“Let’s kill the lights,” he said, heading toward the bank of switches while Tío watched his back.

Marcos swallowed his astonishment when he climbed the stairs to the south end. Two more guards sat gagged and bound, unconscious. He raised an eyebrow at Abuela, who winked at him. Only two more? Were the guards on a twelve-hour rotation?

“We need to watch our backs,” Moses said.

“Of course. Those rooms should overlook the CAB portico. Let’s get to it!”

Marcos entered the southeast room. More file cabinets, a dusty desk, and layers of old footprints covered in thick dust were the only sign of human life.

He unlocked the window sash and grunted with effort as he opened the screen-less window. Marcos coughed into his shirt, keeping it draped over his mouth while the dust cleared. He crouched into position, his body sheltered by the outside brick wall.

Militia fighters occupied the portico, while identical black-clad figures crept toward them in the eastern alleyway. Were those Obsidian Patrols or Britwell’s militia?

“Queso agrio,” he cursed.

“Can you tell who’s who out there?” Tío asked, poking his head out of the window alongside Marcos’s.

“Not really. We’re going to have to assume the bad guys are on the portico and the good guys are closer to us.”

“The people underneath us all have a yellow armband,” said Tío, pointing to an Ivory man crouched behind a concrete barrier. “That must be patrols below us.”

“That helps,” Marcos ducked under the sill and checked both his Kalishi and the guard’s rifle. Marcos chose the familiar Russian model, handing the Chinese rifle to Tío. His friend fiddled with the Chinese rifle, taking it apart and examining it from every angle.

“It’s operational,” he said, as he racked a round and sighted down the rifle’s length. “But maybe overkill. I’ll have fun with it, though.”

Of course, Tío would think using a new weapon was fun.

Tío covered Marcos, and Marcos timed his shots to follow Moses'. Sighting a militia fighter moving into position, Marcos pulled the trigger, his shot dropping the man. Marcos cursed as the fighter sat up.

“Armored!” he whisper-shouted to Tío, who relayed it to his parents next door.

That the reunited family should fight alongside each other struck Marcos as incredibly beautiful.

Bullets pinged off the building below them, and Marcos covered his head.

“Go!” Tío shouted, as he rose to his knees. Marcos’ covering fire hit not one but two fighters.

“Three wounded,” he whispered as he dove beneath the sill. Bullets strafed the room, raining glass down from the upper window and ceiling fixtures. The windows shattered above them, adding to the deafening noise in the room.

Gunfire erupted below them, and Marcos dove into the firefight. He backed patrols up, taking out fighters at the mouth of the alleyway or at the portico.

Marcos ejected his spent cartridge and reloaded, waiting for the patrols below to engage. They kept up this rhythm for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. A bullet ruffled his hair.

Marcos yelled and fired, the militia fighters retreating behind the grand pillars on the portico.

Footsteps shuffled behind him, and Marcos spun to see the unconscious guard being dragged away. He and Tío fired at the two shadowy figures disappearing around the corner, their bullets ricocheting off the men’s armored backs.

A small metal ball bounced into the room, getting lost under a dusty desk and a small credenza.

Marcos dove behind a file cabinet. Lights and noise filled the space, stunning and disorienting him. He clapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. Marcos saw pure blackness and waited for the bullet that would end him.

41

Feet pounding the pavement of Central and a cool summer breeze teasing her hair and cooling her sweat, Rose sprinted with her mother toward the backside of the warehouse next to the CAB. Every time they rounded the corner of a building, Rose feared they’d run straight into the battle line. But nothing so far.

They reached the old riverfront walking pathway and turned west. Her mother’s steady breathing sounded behind her, but Rose still slowed her pace. Vines and weedy grasses obscured the river, overtaking the paved walkway and making their path treacherous in the dark. The last thing Rose wanted was to trip and fall. Or worse, end up in the river.

“I’m not going to ask how you know where you’re going,” her mother whispered from right behind her. “I’m impressed you know of this path, though. Few do.”

“Never you mind how I know,” said Rose. Maybe one day Rose would tell her mother her full experience of sneaking around Central. But right now, they had a city council to rescue.

They passed building after building in Central, arranged like dark behemoths with gaping holes resembling empty mouths. The city’s government occupied one in ten buildings here. If Rose had her say, they’d repair and convert these buildings to expand the crowded schools, high-rises, and tenement apartments in their city. And also house the freed laborers from QT3. But who was she but a lowly teenager, kicked out of her elite doctoral program for poking her nose into Martin's things?

If they succeeded today, perhaps a few more like-minded men and women would populate the city council. But would they be able to change the Martin regime’s oppressive system? Doubtful.

Rose had grown wary of powerful people, for obvious reasons.

Peeking around the last bombed-out building toward the warehouse with the secret tunnel entrance, Rose dove backward, knocking her mother off her feet. Dark figures darted through the shadows in the alleyway, heading toward the back of the CAB. Friend or foe, it didn’t matter. She had to avoid both the militia and patrols to take down the actual enemies: Britwell and Junior.

Sophie peeked around Rose. They both watched a lithe figure leave the warehouse Rose aimed at, heading directly toward them.

The women flattened themselves to the ground, and Rose held her breath. Quiet footsteps sounded not ten feet from them, then louder footsteps pounded the path as Carrie Wang sprinted away and toward the Central Depot and the docks.

When Rose could no longer hear Carrie’s footsteps, she turned to her mother. “That was Carrie, in case you didn’t recognize her. Mom, what’s going on with her?”

Her mother shook her head and pointed toward the warehouse. “Your plan. I’ll explain later, promise. But Carrie is no threat to you or I.”

Rose snorted. Sure, Carrie had given Rose the means of escape from Junior’s clutches, but how could her mother be so sure the young woman, who clearly had her own agenda, was no threat to them? As much as Rose wanted to stay and argue, she knew the city council’s clock was ticking. And if Carrie had been with Junior, that meant he was probably still inside the council conference room.

Rose stood and checked in both directions before slipping across the gravel littering the road between them and the warehouse. She put her back to the cement block wall and let out a breath into her collar, her mother mimicking her actions next to her. Lifting each foot and placing it in the loose gravel to remain silent, she worked toward the warehouse door, her mother a shadow next to her. Once at the door, she nearly cursed out loud.

“Locked,” she whispered to her mother.

Ugh. Rose rifled through her backpack, her hands shaking and fingers numb. She felt way too exposed.

Rose fumbled with the gun assembly on her lock-picking kit, the same one Carrie had given her, dropping the shaft with a clatter several times.

“Where did you get that?” her mother asked. “And do you want me to do this?”

Rose shook her head and eventually locked the mechanism into place.

Voices echoed through a nearby alleyway, and the two women shrunk into the deeper shadows under the warehouse eaves. Men ran to the back of the CAB and into the alleyway on the west side of the building. She didn’t care if they were patrols or militia. Either side would kill them.

When silence surrounded them again, Rose crept back to the door. She inserted the lock pick gun into the keyhole and, with a quick flick of her wrist, unlocked the door. Rose bolted inside, her mother closing the door after them. Her back flattened against the door, she breathed, telling her pounding heart to calm.

Oddly enough, Rose was glad her mother was with her. This whole thing would feel overwhelming and scary if Rose were alone. But she'd always operated on her own. Study alone. Excel in science and math alone. Ace tests alone.

It was a stupid way to live, and Rose regretted it right now.

But were she and her mother enough firepower to take down Junior and Britwell?

No doubt, Junior had other militia members inside the council room.

“We should’ve brought more operatives with us,” Rose said to her mother, pitching her voice low so it didn’t echo through the empty warehouse space.

“Too late for that,” said her mother. “Let’s just move forward. We have to at least try to stop them.”

“What if they disarmed the council members and we are massively outnumbered?”

Her mother rested her hand on Rose’s shoulder. “You worry too much. We have to try. I’m burning with curiosity about why we’re in the warehouse next to the CAB, so anytime you want to enlighten me, that’d be great.”

“Too complicated to explain,” said Rose, already starting out across the dusty concrete floor. “I’ll show you.”

Her mother held onto Rose’s jacket.

Rose navigated the space by scant memory and touch, not daring to turn on her flashlight for fear of discovery. She got lost more than once down wide aisles between empty shelves. While the moon shone outside, the windows of this warehouse were so black with accumulated dust that hardly any light broke through. She pressed on, knowing they didn’t have all night. Too soon, Britwell and Junior would execute anyone who didn’t go along with their schemes.

Which meant Rose had to find that closet.

Rose heard shuffling behind them and dove, an arm brushing against her side, away from where her mother stood. Rose swung her revolver as she rolled and sprang to her feet, taking aim at what she hoped was body center.

“Freeze or I’ll shoot!” she yelled and silently prayed her assailant didn’t have night-vision goggles.

42

His flashlight lit up Rose’s face.

“Rose! Don’t shoot!” Jason yelled, lowering his revolver and raising his hands.

“Bonders, Jason! You scared the daylights out of me!”

Rose crashed into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. He held her to himself, as Sam threw him a look over Rose’s head. He knew what his friend was thinking, but it wasn’t like that.

“Why are you here?” Jason asked, nodding to the woman who had to be Rose’s mom based on how alike they looked.

“The tunnel. There’s a secret way into the conference room.”

Jason released her. “Where?”

“It’s this way, shine that flashlight over here for a second. By the way, Jason, Sam, meet my mother, Sophie Chen. Did you follow us?”

“Yep,” Sam said.

“Walls’ balls.”

“We were the only ones around to see you. Go ahead, you two, we’ll guard our backs,” Jason said.

As Sam’s light clicked back on, Rose rushed to the open closet door.

She shoved aside the janitorial supplies, revealing the tunnel descending into deep darkness.

“Wow, how did you find this?” her mother asked Rose.

“Pure luck,” said Rose.

“So, we subdue everyone inside and figure out which side they’re on later?” Sam asked quietly.

Gunfire echoed through the surrounding alleyways, echoes of the noise bouncing back from the empty buildings and concrete streets.

Jason hit the floor, banging his elbow on the concrete. “Ow,” he hissed.

“Did you not expect the gunfire?” Sam chided him.

“I guess, but that sounded close,” Jason said.

“The militia was heading into the alleyway between us and the CAB when we snuck in. Maybe that’s patrols engaging them from the front?” Sophie said. “Come on. We don’t have all day.”

Jason raised his eyebrows at Sam, who shrugged. He’d not been around the older operative, but her no-nonsense attitude and focus impressed him.

Sophie gestured for her daughter to lead the way.

“One at a time on this thing. It’s not so stable,” Rose said as she descended.

The stairs wobbled and bucked with her weight, then with her mother’s.

Jason extended a fist to Sam. “Finally.”

Once Rose and Sophie cleared the stairs, Jason jumped to the bottom, landing in a crouch. “Obsidian and Ivory Patrols arriving will pull fighters toward the portico or the back dock from the council room.” He threw the words over his shoulder at Sam, who took the stairs two-at-a-time behind Jason.

Even in the underground tunnel, the gunfire made Jason want to duck. That was ridiculous, given he was underneath the fighting. Sam’s flashlight beam caught black boxes fixed to the ceiling of the tunnel. Ventilation ducts? Jason shrugged. He was no mechanic or architect.

Rose sprinted up the stairs, her mother remaining at the foot of the stairs. Rose gestured for Sam to take cover position. Jason edged Rose out, taking point as she punched his side. This was his opportunity to confront his father, stop whatever plans Hudson Britwell had, once and for all.

“Please,” he said, looking down at her up-tilted face.

Relief filled him as she shrugged.

Jason turned the knob with one hand, his revolver raised and ready in the other. A barrage of yelling and curses met them as they entered the council room.

“Walls’ balls. Here we go,” Sam said as they breached the council room and Sophie raced up the stairs behind them.

43

Harriet attached the saline-filled IV bag to the pole and carefully wound the tubing into a circle, draping it over the hook. That was twelve prepped IVs. She hoped it was enough. They were out of supplies to make more.

Harriet surveyed the medic tent scene, her hands propped on her hips.

“Can you help me with these bandages?” Dez asked.

Harriet flared her nostrils but joined him, despite her irritation. While Harriet suspected Dez of collaborating with the Obsidian patrols captain, and otherwise making her life difficult, they had a job to do. She’d swallow her suspicion so their team would be prepared for whatever was coming at them.

Harriet grabbed a few stacks of bandages and spread them out to roll up.

“Harriet…”

“So,” she cut him off, “tell me how you got connected with our friends.” She kept her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

Dez’s gaze flew to hers, and she could’ve sworn she saw hurt and anger there. He pursed his lips, then replied, “But you know this.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows.

Dez’s gaze flitted around them before he returned to rolling up gauze. “Don. He was my first trainer. Why are you asking?” Don had also been Harriet’s first trainer.

Harriet shrugged. “How long have you been an operative?”

His eyes widened as he grabbed more gauze from the box.

“Again, you know this. Maybe ten months? Same as you, right? You said my first training time at Don’s was your first time, too.”

That’s where he was wrong. Harriet had been an operative since she was eight years old. But he didn’t know that. She hadn’t gone to a training night until last year. And then only because Alma May had dragged her.

“What’s all this about?” Dez threw down the length of gauze and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Harriet, you know all this.” He blew out a breath and she forced herself not to flinch as it hit her in the face. “Why are you asking? Don’t you trust me? And why here, where anyone could overhear you?”

“Never mind. Just making conversation.”

He leaned even closer. Harriet stiffened. “Tell me what’s going on, Harriet.”

She stepped away, forcing his hands to drop from her shoulders. “I said 'nothing', and I mean it.”

“Why are you so defensive? We’ve known each other for years.” He stepped closer again and reached for her. “I’ve loved you for years. Adored you.”

Harriet shook her head and backed away, putting the table stacked with gauze rolls between them. “Dez, don’t. It’s not like that for me. Please, understand.”

“Is it someone else then? Or is it that Marcos guy?” As he said Marcos’ name, he looked out of the corner of his eye around them.

Harriet cradled her head in her palm, her eyes closed as she breathed deeply in and out. “Nothing I say will get through to you. Alma May was right. I can’t be around you at all.”

She turned to walk away, but he gripped her right biceps and spun her into him. Her hands came up defensively against his chest. She pushed against him, but he gripped her tightly, his touch making her want to run.

Gunfire echoed through the street sending them both diving to the ground. Dez dragged her behind a concrete barrier and covered her with his body. Someone screamed as if shot.

Harriet pushed against Dez’s weight, wriggling out from underneath him, the need to run consuming her. When the gunfire stopped and their guards sounded the all-clear, Harriet jumped up.

But Dez blocked her. “Alma May is dead, Harriet.”

The world went silent, and Harriet hung her mouth open at Dez. How dare he say that? She slapped his cheek, her palm stinging from the contact. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him.

His gaze burned into Harriet’s, and all she wanted to do was pummel him and then run away. Far away.

“Stop talking about her like she’s right here,” Dez said. Harriet gaped at him, her feet rooted in place as if chains held her prisoner. “Stop telling me to ask her to do things. Stop deluding yourself,” Dez’s voice grew in volume and indignation, making Harriet flinch. “She died when you were eight. I know you loved your cousin, but she’s gone. Stop hiding behind her. Can’t you see I’ve loved you this entire time? Not Alma May, you.”

He leaned toward her, and alarm filled Harriet. Before she could protest or push out of his grip, Dez’s lips covered hers. Revulsion overtook Harriet as her vision went black at the edges.

Someone cleared their throat behind Harriet and Dez released her.

Harriet wiped her mouth and bolted away, knowing her face was a deep red. She pivoted past another medic and sprinted toward the ambulance.

“Don’t come after me, Dez. I’ve had it with you,” she yelled over her shoulder. She didn’t care who heard her now. How could he say Alma May was dead? The best part of Harriet’s life wasn’t dead. Not if Harriet kept her alive. Alma May would never die, never disappear from Harriet’s life. No one, not even Dez, could take her best friend away.

“It’s about time you got some backbone,” Dara said when Harriet reached the ambulance, startling Harriet out of her thoughts.

The older Obsidian woman wore a thin smile on her lined face. Dara walked toward her, freezing Harriet in place. How much had her boss heard? Was Harriet in trouble for slapping Dez even though he’d deserved it? Tears threatened to spill from her eyes and Harriet blinked them back. She had to hold herself together, though all she wanted was to run and hide. Wanted to forget everything Dez had said and talk to Alma May.

“We’ve all taken bets on how long it would take for you to slug him,” said Dara. “What did he say about your cousin, though? Was he tormenting you with Alma May’s death? I know that had to be hard on your family.” Dara’s look of pity finally unleashed the well of darkness buried deep inside Harriet, the well she’d been struggling to keep covered.

How dare they all say Alma May was dead? She’d never be dead as long as Harriet lived. The wave of emotion swept through Harriet, and tears poured down her face as she turned away from Dara.

Harriet was drowning, the pull of grief and anger and fear tugging her into an abyss.

The darkness chased her as she ran, a monster at her back. But Harriet wasn’t fast enough.

***

Harriet ran until the gunfire’s echoes grew faint. Then she collapsed into a heap next to a steel door. She didn’t even care where she was as long as it was alone.

How dare he? It was none of Dez’s business that Harriet held onto Alma May, her soul yearning for her best friend. That day came rushing back, and Harriet did nothing to stop the memory, needing to feel close to Alma May again. She saw the entire scene as if flying above it, untouched by the evil.

Standing with her mother and grandparents, Harriet watched as first her father, then his other supposed ‘co-conspirators’ filed out to the execution grounds. Of course, the Obsidian Patrol Captain had selected the hoops court for these executions. The spilled blood would stain the blacktop for months. A daily reminder of rebellion’s cost.

Her mother, Ruth, stiffened, and Harriet craned her neck around Grandma Thompson’s knitting bag to see the group. Her eyes widened. Alma May stood next to Harriet’s aunt, her dad’s sister. Her cousin and best friend bit her lip and nodded at Harriet before signing the coded signal for “safe.” There was nothing ‘safe’ about this situation! Why say that while lined up before the executioners with her entire family?

Tears streamed down Harriet’s face, and Grandpa Thompson tugged her into his side.

“Don’t you move, Hari. Nothing you can do about this. Nothing any of us can. It’s the Lord’s will. He giveth, and He taketh away.”

Harriet’s lower lip wobbled as her gaze flitted between her father and her best friend. They wore identical expressions. Resolve. Determination. Stubbornness. And maybe a little pride. They hadn’t broken. Harriet knew that in the depths of her heart. Not even her eight-year-old cousin would have given up anything in interrogation. Alma May, with her hair unrestrained and the curls’ volume making her seem taller, was the bravest person Harriet knew.

The call to raise arms sounded and the firing squad, all hooded to conceal their identity, each took aim at their assigned condemned. The guns blasted a hole in Harriet’s heart, and she screamed as Alma May and her father fell to the ground. She felt herself being lifted, powerful arms carrying her away.

Her little girl legs pumped wildly, trying to get back to Alma May, to stop her blood from leaking onto the asphalt. But her grandfather was too strong for her.

Harriet curled herself into a ball in the empty alleyway outside the gate into Obsidian. Her body shook and her face was wet. She took deep breaths in and out, trying to calm her racing heart, but the memory’s terror still gripped her. She buried her face in her palms.

“I’m safe. I’m alive,” she whispered to herself. Eventually, her heart rate slowed and her breaths evened out.

She wasn’t safe. Gunfire still echoed through the alleyways, though the distance made it sound less immediate, less terrifying.

Had Harriet ever been safe? She shook her head. No, she’d always lived under the specter of her uncle’s betrayal of their family, under the terror of the possibility of another family member falling victim to his rule-following.

Her thoughts turned to her cousin. Harriet missed Alma May so much it made her insides ache and twist.

Harriet felt ashamed at how poorly she’d honored her cousin — her brave cousin who’d run messages to other operatives as a young child and been caught. But Harriet also realized that deep inside, Alma May had planted the seeds of bravery inside Harriet. Seeds that didn’t get enough time in the sun.

“I’m going to do better,” Harriet whispered, with tears in her eyes. “I miss you, Alma May. But I won’t let you go. If I say you’re alive, that’s all you need to be alive.”

Dez was wrong. Alma May still lived because Harriet refused to let her die. Letting go would mean Alma May’s life was unworthy. And that was a lie.

Harriet plodded back to the medic station, thoughts consuming her. She wanted to thank Dara for validating her revulsion toward Dez. But Dara was nowhere to be found.

Were they already getting casualties? Maybe the captain had called Dara over for a quick consultation or debriefing. Even the thought of Captain Johnson made Harriet’s gut churn and her eyelids twitch.

Harriet dry-washed her hands and stood behind several colleagues, as if they were a barrier, silently vowing to never speak to Dez again.

44

Jason swung around the right side of the door in the lead, his weapon trained on Junior. Rose and Sam quickly covered him, Rose’s mother bringing up the rear.

“Well, look who betrayed his own family.” Junior squared his shoulders, his weapon aimed at Jason’s body armor-covered chest.

Rose counted guns. They could win this fight. Had to win this fight. Or else the Underground’s leadership would be decimated.

Andrew’s eyes flicked toward Hudson Britwell, who held him at gunpoint. Jason's growl made Rose’s hackles rise.

Lin caught Rose’s gaze, a smirk on his lips. Rose’s blood boiled, anger fueling her resolve to end the prick now. He’d kidnapped her and, as a result, caused her great suffering under Junior’s torture.

Jason fired across the table at Junior, who threw himself to the side with a loud curse.

Andrew slapped Hudson Britwell’s gun aside, sending it skittering across the floor, and shoved him toward Jason, who tackled his father.

Bullets flew, and Rose dove for cover, her mother shielding Rose’s body with her own. Rose scrambled out from under her mother but gave her a quick nod. Sophie gestured toward where Lin had been, and pointed at Rose, then herself, as if saying Rose should take on Lin and her mother would cover her.

Behind them, Jason and his father wrestled, and Jason’s revolver slid toward Sophie’s leg. Sophie knocked it back toward Jason, but out of Hudson Britwell’s reach.

“Go,” her mother said.

Rose stood and returned Lin’s fire before he ducked behind a chair. She crawled underneath the conference table, trying to get a better angle on Lin and the others.

Where was Sam? He’d disappeared in the chaos.

Rose ducked beneath the table again and her gaze connected with Andrew’s, who gestured at Lin. She gave Andrew a thumbs-up. Lin’s bullets flew in a wild arc around the room from his place behind a thick wooden chair.

Rose put her back to the two men wrestling on the floor and crawled under the table. She'd trust Jason to handle his father.

Havana representative and Marcos’s father, Hector Alvarez, dove under the conference room table, blocking Rose’s progress. She trained her revolver on his face.

“Drop your weapon,” Rose told Alvarez.

Hector laid his revolver down and, awkwardly because he was on his hands and knees, raised his hands in the air.

“It’s ok,” said her mother. “He’s on our side.”

“What? Despite how abusive he was to his own son?” Rose’s voice warbled, and she cursed internally. She wanted to sound strong, in charge, and that warble betrayed her own nerves.

“Yes, despite how he treated Marcos,” said her mother with a sigh. “Let him pass.”

Rose flicked her revolver toward Hudson Britwell. “Incapacitate him so Jason can help take down the others.”

Alvarez nodded. He dropped his hands and clutched his shoulder, where Rose saw blood blooming on his lighter button-down shirt.

“Are you shot?”

“It’s not bad,” Alvarez said. “I’ll help deal with Hudson.”

A high-pitched scream echoed through the room, drawing Rose’s attention. She scrambled to the other side of the table and rose to her knees. She swung her revolver up, firing off round after round at Lin, but the pufferdoon dove behind an overturned bookshelf. Rose growled in frustration at missing her opportunity.

She ducked back under the table and crawled toward Andrew Stewart behind a nearby overturned chair. He gestured to his right and signed an “x” showing he was pinned and couldn’t join her. She flashed a thumbs-up.

Her knee dug into something metal, and Rose reached down to find a revolver. Was this Hudson’s or Jason’s? Didn’t matter right now. Two guns were better than one, and she could always get it to Jason once he subdued his father.

Alvarez collapsed onto his back next to her, blood from his gunshot wound spreading underneath him and staining the carpet. So much for him helping take down Hudson Britwell.

Her mother joined her, removing her jacket and pressing it to the wound.

“I’ve got this,” her mother said. “You go deal with Lin.”

Rose reloaded her gun and nodded, crawling away to the sound of Alvarez’s moaning.

Rose reached the far edge of the conference table, then stood, firing down onto Lin’s position. He rolled away, her shots hitting another fighter in the back. Lin came up shooting, and Rose dove for cover again under the table, scrambling behind the thick table support.

The doors into the lobby rattled, and Rose watched as Lin leaped over the bookshelf and out into the lobby. As she launched after him, a bullet whizzed through her hair, sending her into a roll toward where Andrew and Mr. Kim hid behind an overturned row of wooden chairs.

45

Jason froze as a cold circle touched his temple. He heard his father laugh. Hudson Britwell wriggled out from under Jason, found his revolver, and stood alongside Junior.

“Let’s all just take a minute.” Junior’s voice slid ice down Jason’s spine. Jason knelt in front of Junior, completely powerless.

“The little betrayer,” Junior spat, shoving Jason forward onto all fours. “It will be my great pleasure to kill you.” Junior bent down right behind Jason, the revolver digging into Jason’s back, aimed toward his heart.

Movement to his left caught Jason’s eye, and a gunshot rang out. Jason expected to collapse in pain, but someone else’s scream pierced the air.

“Nobody move!” Junior screamed, dragging Jason up to stand in front of him, a human shield. He felt Junior’s revolver pressed into his left kidney, a sure kill shot. Junior's other arm pinned Jason's neck to Junior's shoulder.

Jason took stock of the situation. He couldn’t see Sophie, Rose, or Sam, which was good. Then again, he wouldn’t mind getting out of this predicament. They were all excellent marksmen.

“Councilwoman, rise to your feet.”

A short Little Asian woman crawled out from behind a wall of overturned chairs, her hands raised in the air.

“Shoot her.”

Hudson Britwell raised his revolver.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Two shots to the chest, one to the head. The woman fell, glassy-eyed, to the floor, and a shocked murmur ran through the room.

“You won’t get away with this, Britwell,” Mr. Kim said. The mayor stood with his weapon pointed at Hudson Britwell. The normally well-dressed Mr. Kim was rumpled and blood dotted his cheek.

Jason caught Rose’s eye. From her position, she had a clear shot of his father. He wished he knew where Sam or Sophie were, so they could all work together.

“Drop your weapons or I kill Jason,” Junior said, digging his gun into Jason’s side again.

“The way I see it, it’s five guns to three, in our favor,” Mr. Kim said, gesturing for Andrew Stewart to stand alongside him.

“Take them all out!” Junior yelled, as Rose swung her revolver.

“Duck!” she yelled.

Jason dropped to the ground. Rose’s gunshot strafed the air above him and hit Hudson. His father clutched his chest and returned fire.

Rose scrambled back under the table. That sent Junior pushing past Jason to dive under the table after Rose.

Jason tripped him but Junior spun, kicking a steel-toed boot at him. He caught Junior’s boot with both hands and flipped him with a grunt.

Junior toppled backward and yelled, blood blooming from his left shoulder.

Jason ducked behind the thick conference table leg and scrambled for a revolver lying a few feet away.

Hudson fired toward Jason, his bullets sending shards of the thick support flying. The click-clicking of an empty chamber echoed underneath the table. Jason dove toward Hudson and pinned his father beneath him.

“You’re worthless. Junior is more a son to me that you were,” Hudson hissed as he struggled to buck Jason off him. “Now, you’re going to die. Just like she did.”

Hudson Britwell had lost the right to be Jason’s father when he’d killed Jason’s mother.

Jason rolled, pressing a knee into Hudson Britwell’s injured shoulder. The man screamed at the pain.

“That’s for Mom, and I’m done with you. You can die for all I care.”

Enraged, Jason wanted to blanket his father’s face with his spittle, but he swallowed instead. He secured his father’s hands behind his back, tightening the zip tie. Jason didn’t care if it cut off the circulation to Hudson Britwell’s hands.

Sam bellowed for someone to get down, the command followed immediately by a deep-voiced scream.

Gunfire strafed the air by Jason’s ear, and he rolled behind the table leg, cursing, looking around for who targeted him.

“Status?” Jason said in a loud voice.

“I’m going to kill you, Britwell!” Junior said.

Jason knew Junior wasn’t referring to Hudson.

“I’m hit but ok,” Alvarez whispered from just behind him, startling Jason.

Alvarez was the last person Jason cared about right now. “Stay where you are and keep your head down. Don’t be an idiot,” Jason growled as he army-crawled toward the other side of the room.

An Obsidian councilman lay on the ground in front of the closed lobby doors. Jason felt for a pulse before continuing on. The man was still alive.

“Here,” Sam called from behind a series of overturned chairs, where he’d joined Sophie Chen and several council members, including Peter Kim and Andrew. Relief filled Jason at seeing his partner and friend not only alive but protecting their Underground leadership. And good thing Sophie was with them, providing another layer of fire power.

But Jason was now in the no-man’s-land of the room's middle. Pieces of furniture and heavy bound volumes of books lay scattered, creating a maze between him and the overturned bookshelf where Rose engaged Junior not far from the door to the tunnel.

Jason moved under the table toward the tunnel and Rose.

Alvarez propped up on his elbows, as if to sit up.

“Don’t you dare. If you can make it, get behind the barrier with Peter Kim now, before I shoot you myself,” Jason ordered the Havana rep.

Alvarez didn’t deserve to live, given how he’d treated Marcos. But that was Marcos’s vengeance to extract.

Alvarez’s face paled. “But…”

“Do it,” Mr. Kim echoed from across the room.

“Go,” Jason said.

The older man nodded, then inched away, trailing blood until he crouched in a ball behind a wooden chair with Andrew.

Jason peered around the table leg. Gunfire tore up the wall above the overturned bookshelf, and Jason couldn’t see Rose anymore. Had she been shot?

Time to end this.

“Jason,” Sam yelled. “Geese.”

Jason pressed his lips together. It was their code for tag-teaming an enemy.

“On my mark,” Jason yelled, but Sam burst out of his hiding place at his “my” while Jason whirled as he said “mark.” Jason smiled as Rose popped up and provided covering fire for them, forcing a pair of fighters to duck behind a row of chairs near the lobby doors, directly at Jason’s back.

Not only was she alive, but also, she’d just saved his life.

Sam and Jason engaged the cowering fighters, popping up and ducking down in tandem with Rose across the room, and Sophie, Andrew, and Mr. Kim at their backs.

Junior leaped up from under the conference table, scrambling to the tunnel door. Peter Kim yelled curses at him. At Jason’s knees, Britwell yelled taunts in reply.

Jason screamed a curse at Junior, who had disappeared into the tunnel.

Andrew tackled the other Havana rep before the portly man could follow Junior.

Jason tossed Andrew a few zip ties and the room fell silent, as if everyone were holding their breath. Desperation filled Jason. He couldn’t let his nemesis get away.

46

Rose’s jaw dropped as she watched Junior disappear behind the mirror and into his tunnel. Jason scrambled after him, and Rose provided covering fire, forcing the other militia members behind their barricade.

Jason pulled and yanked at the mirror, but the door wouldn’t budge. Rose knew why — he hadn’t found the hidden latch on the mirror’s frame. She fell to her knees and crawled toward the table, bullets embedding into the table leg beside her. She stood, her back at the lobby doors, and opened her mouth to tell Jason where the hidden latch was.

An explosion rocked the CAB, vaulting Rose through the doors and into the lobby. She landed in a roll and popped to her feet, revolver up and ready. She spun left then right, anticipating the militia bullet that would end her life. All she saw were Ivory patrol officers in yellow armbands pouring through the double doors into the CAB and subduing surrendering black-clad militia.

Shouts echoed through the lobby as Ivory patrols fanned out into the space. Rose lifted her hands, her revolver clattering to the floor. She swallowed against the coating of dust and grime inside her mouth and forced herself to pay attention to her breath.

How had she survived that blast without a scratch? Or was her pumping adrenaline masking an injury? Rose didn’t have time to check herself, freezing at the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off next to her.

“Who are you?”

“Rose Chen, sir.” Rose was face-to-face with the Ivory Patrols Captain Foster, his rank emblazoned on his shoulders. Dumb luck that she’d get the rule-following Foster rather than a simple patrols officer.

“Why are you here?”

“Mr. Peter Kim is still inside. His wife ordered me to protect him.”

He eyed her up and down, definitely not missing the revolver on the floor next to her. “Why are you armed?” He kicked her revolver away.

Rose wriggled her nose against a sneeze. “Peter Kim trained me in personal protection, sir. He didn’t trust the Little Asian patrols. Said there were traitors inside patrols out to kill him. As soon as I learned they had escorted him here, I came.”

The furrow between the captain’s eyebrows grew with each lie (or every stretch of the truth). Mr. Kim hadn’t trained her himself, nor had he appointed her as his personal bodyguard, but others under his command certainly had.

Rose raised her chin.

“Stay here. And stay out of the way.” He knelt and emptied her revolver, turning it handle-forward for her to take.

“I was inside just now, sir.”

Foster whirled around, pointing his revolver at her again.

“Not with Hudson Britwell and Junior, trust me. They’re the enemy. I was there with Peter Kim. But there are people wounded inside; some may be near dying. We have to dig them out!”

“Negative. Leave that for the pros,” Foster said, gesturing to the many Ivory and Obsidian patrolmen, who filled the space. “I’ll say this again. Stay out of the way.”

He strode off. She tucked her useless revolver into her waistband and scanned the lobby.

Rose darted toward a familiar prone figure and her stomach dropped to her toes at the sight.

“Jason!” she shouted. “Jason, wake up!”

She shook his shoulders, then felt for a pulse. She felt a strong beat at his neck and her panic eased. She ran her hand through his soft hair, feeling the contours of his skull, checking for a fracture. Finding none, she knelt by his side, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

Jason lay in the middle of the starburst in the very center of the lobby. Thankfully, the chandelier hadn’t fallen in the explosion and crushed him, though it now swayed back and forth.

She felt along his limbs. Jason grimaced as she probed his left biceps.

“Transport survivors to the Obsidian medic tent and dammit, secure these prisoners!” an Ivory patrolman built like a bull yelled, his voice piercing the confusion.

Fighters littered the floor, some unconscious or maybe even dead, others moaning and clutching various body parts. With the all-black uniforms and patrol-issued rifles, the only way Rose could tell if these were patrolmen or militia members were the yellow armbands the patrolmen wore.

“All hands clear this rubble!” Captain Foster yelled.

A line of patrolmen snaked out of the now-destroyed council room doors, passing rubble one patrolman to another then into a pile at the far side of the lobby. Others checked bodies and zip-tied those militia members still alive. She marveled that both she and Jason had avoided being trapped under the rubble, then wondered if anyone inside had survived. Including her mother and Sam.

Rose wanted to join the activity, but she refused to leave Jason alone. And if anyone asked how they knew each other, Rose was prepared to lie through her teeth. Let them try to separate her from Jason, and they’d see how stubborn Rose could be.

Once the rubble pile blocking the doors hit chest high, patrolmen scrambled over the top, revolvers in hand. As if the council members buried inside would attack them. But Rose was thankful for their speed. If anyone in that conference room had survived, it would be a miracle. Even so, Rose hoped her mother would be among the survivors.

Foster paced the lobby, alternately yelling to hurry and mumbling to himself.

Based on his reputation alone, she’d bet those mutters included copious curses for Junior and Britwell.

Rose breathed out a long exhale and told her heart to stay calm.

At least she and Captain Foster had something in common — a desire for justice. Because if Junior were here right now, Rose would kill him.

47

Abuela’s shout awakened Marcos. Her gentle hands on his shoulders urged him to consciousness.

“What???”

His mouth was dry as the desert, though he’d never experienced one to know for sure. This must be how a mouthful of sand felt.

“Breathe, Marcos,” Abuela said.

Marcos blinked rapidly, clearing his vision as Moses stirred next to him. “What was that and where can we get one? And why am I not dead?”

“That was a stun grenade,” Moses said, sitting up and blinking his eyes rapidly. “We used them when I was a Ranger for non-violent suppression. Usually at protests and demonstrations, for riot control, that sort of thing.”

Bright clouds and sparks filled Marcos' vision. He gave a start as Moses knelt in front of him, a halo around his head.

Moses grunted as he stood, dusted off his pants, and extended a hand to Marcos.

Another explosion filled the air, throwing them all to the floor. Marcos covered his head, expecting to die for the second time in under five minutes.

“What was that?” Tío asked, vaulting over Marcos and to the window.

“Whatever it was, I’m glad we’re alive,” Abuela said, pushing to her feet and joining her son at the window.

Alive. Yes, they had survived. That fact hit him like a gut punch as he remembered Win hadn’t survived the labor camp’s liberation. Which made Marcos wondered who they would lose in this battle. Because war didn’t honor your friendships, and it certainly showed no favoritism.

“We have bigger problems. A bomb exploded, taking out half the CAB. Or so it seems,” Tío said.

Marcos tried to stand, but fell back onto his rear, the world swimming in circles around him. He rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes to stop the spinning. “Half the CAB? Was the council still inside? What about our people?” Marcos asked.

What if Rose or Jason were inside the council room when the bomb had obliterated it? Marcos couldn’t stand the thought of losing either of them. Or Harriet. He silently willed them all to survive.

“Hard to say, and it’s not like we can waltz up there and demand to know how anyone other than our area’s people are. Ivory patrols just secured the portico,” Abuela said. She leaned against a file cabinet and turned back to Marcos.

“After they dropped that stun grenade on you all, they grabbed their colleagues. I followed them and watched the guards drive a van out of another loading dock in the western alleyway, and high tail it out of here. Didn’t even fight us or stop me from following them out.”

“How did we miss them?” Tío asked.

“Yeah, they sure got the drop on us,” Moses said. “Probably heard us moving through the warehouse or the gunfire outside and implemented an escape plan. It’s what I’d do. Come back with reinforcements later. But I should’ve seen that move coming. You okay, Marcos? You seemed to have taken the brunt of the stun grenade.”

“Maybe. It didn’t hurt, but it disoriented me so much I fainted. And my ears are still ringing. I can hear you all, but it’s like you’re muffled, talking through layers of cloth or something. Plus, if I move too fast everything spins. And Moses has a bright halo around his head.”

Abuela laughed uproariously, slapping a hand on her knee. “That’s hilarious! My Moses is amazing, but an angel? Nope. Not one of those.” She continued chuckling, her eyes sparkling at her husband.

“I’ll show you how not like an angel I can be later,” Moses murmured.

Tío’s nostrils flared, and he turned away.

“Alright, alright! Now my ears are ringing and burning now! Ah!” Marcos clapped his hands over his ears.

Marcos slowly stood, rising first to his hands and knees, then to kneel upright. Abuela pushed her shoulder under his arm and helped him stand. Together, they moved to the window.

“It’s bad,” Abuela said. “But good for us. Like I said, Ivory patrols have the front of the CAB secured. I hear gunfire from somewhere, so that must be around the back.” She pointed toward the eastern alleyway, filled with a scattered debris field. “And that’s where the explosion went off.”

Marcos’ heart sank to his toes. “We have to get down there,” he whispered. “That was where Rose and her team were headed. Plus, Jason and Sam were probably right underneath us, fighting for the portico. Any of them could be injured.”

“Jason and Sam have their patrol structure to take care of them, and Rose is smart,” Tío said. “Plus, no battle plan stays intact after the fight begins. I’ll bet she wasn’t anywhere near that bomb when it discharged.”

Tío’s words should ease Marcos’s fears, but they didn’t. His friends could be dead, and Marcos didn’t know if he could handle that kind of grief again so soon after Win’s death.

48

An explosion rocked the area, throwing Harriet to the ground and sending ash and debris high into the air. She covered her head, trying to catch her breath and telling herself to not run. Shouts filled the air, and Harriet lifted her head. Her other colleagues had all hit the ground, hands also covering their heads.

Harriet jumped to her feet. She closed her eyes and breathed in and out, counting to regulate her racing heartbeat. She could do this. People needed her. Running and hiding would only make things worse, even though that’s all she wanted to do.

It was time to be brave like Alma May.

“You and you, there! Grab stretchers and run to wherever that bomb went off!” She pointed and yelled, startling the other medics out of their paralysis. “Someone radio the captain!”

Dez raised the radio to his lips. Static was all Harriet could hear on their end.

“Forget it, just go there!” Harriet led the other medics toward the thick smoke rolling from the alleyway east of the CAB, forgetting she’d vowed to never speak to Dez just minutes earlier.

As Harriet rounded the corner onto Main Street, the sight of Dara’s prone body stopped her in her tracks. Harriet located Dara's strong pulse, then listened to the clear breath sounds of her chest. She then checked Dara's pupils, making sure they reacted equally. As she probed her boss's skull for a fracture, a figure emerged from the dust cloud. Medics darted into alcoves and ducked, but Harriet stood her ground. Her uncle looked like a mythical figure — clad all in black and covered head-to-toe in dust — as he stood in the alleyway’s mouth and barked orders.

“Medics needed! Mass casualties inside and outside CAB! Prioritize our patrolmen! They have the emblem on their uniforms and yellow armbands.”

Harriet exchanged a glance with Dez, then looked away, locking her jaw against talking to him.

“Was he limping?” Dez asked.

Harriet shrugged. “I doubt he’ll seek treatment unless he’s dying. Let’s move it. We need to find anyone with life-threatening traumatic injuries to transport to Central. Dara can wait a few minutes. She’s stable.”

The rest of the team trotted toward the alleyway entrance. Nearing the scene of the explosion, Harriet deep-breathed, taking in all the bodies — and parts of bodies — strewn everywhere. Obsidian patrol officers were handcuffing those fighters not already dead. Her thick-soled shoes crunched bits of glass and metal littering the mouth of the alleyway as she stepped over people, limbs, and debris to check for survivors.

She and another medic worked together methodically, identifying survivors to take back to the medic tent where half of the team would triage the casualties. Once they had canvassed the scene, Harriet hooked a thumb back toward Dara.

“Let’s get her back to treatment,” she said.

They lifted the older woman onto a stretcher and carried her back to the medic tent.

“Clear space!”

The other medic led the way to a clear spot on the ground, where they gently set Dara’s stretcher down. “Go on back. I’ve got her,” the man said as he lifted his stethoscope to listen to Dara’s heart and lungs.

“Thank you.” Harriet spun around, sprinting back to the scene of the explosion.

She scanned every face among the dead, looking for friends or acquaintances. But she recognized no one, not even those Obsidians among the fallen. She wrinkled her brow, wondering where they’d come from. Then she remembered the camps and all those guards who hadn’t come from inside Queenstown. Harriet wondered how long Junior and Britwell had been recruiting the labor camp guards for their own militia.

“We need a medic unit in the CAB lobby STAT. Multiple casualties. Repeat multiple casualties,” a voice barked from a nearby comm, loud enough for Harriet to hear.

“Roger that,” Dez said.

“Ivory Red, cover the medics,” a male Ivory patrolman ordered.

Harriet and a colleague lifted an unconscious Obsidian patrolman onto their stretcher and were strapping him on when a man covered in dust clambered up from the hole in the alleyway. Harriet started and almost ducked behind her colleague before recognizing Xavier.

“You scared the living daylights out of me, Xavier! Thank God you’re okay!”

He folded his shoulders inward and said, “Sorry. Have you seen either patrol captain?”

Her colleague pointed toward the intersection of the alleyway and Main Street.

“Ready, three, two, one,” she said, as they lifted their patient and trotted after Xavier.

Harriet stopped as she reached Captain Johnson and Xavier in a heated debate. Her partner looked back at her, eyebrows raised. He probably wondered why Harriet wanted to hear this conversation, but let him wonder. She needed to know what was happening.

“But they’re fleeing. We can chase them down, sir!” Xavier said.

“That’s a negative. They have us outgunned and outmanned. We rely on surveillance to track them down. Now, why isn’t that loading dock secured yet?” the captain’s face was like a thundercloud, gesturing toward the gunfire at the back of the CAB.

Harriet was glad it was Xavier and not her facing her uncle’s fury.

As Harriet passed Captain Johnson, their gazes connected, and his eyes narrowed. She dipped her head at him before turning away. How many of their patrol officers would survive the intense firefight at the CAB dock?

Dez and another medic passed her, returning to the alleyway, and he paused, grabbing her elbow.

“What’s wrong, Harriet? What’s going on? I heard yelling,” he said, then lowered his voice. “Was Captain Johnson yelling at you?”

Harriet ripped her elbow from Dez's grasp, then trotted away. She wanted nothing to do with him or with her uncle. But avoiding them was next to impossible.

49

They hurried through the warehouse and out to Queenstown’s Main Street in front of the CAB. Marcos flinched as he stepped around a body part he dared not stop to identify. He walked into the epicenter of destruction and held his breath. The overpowering smell of blood and gore mixed with smoke from the bomb disoriented Marcos, making his stomach lurch.

He would not throw up.

Marcos breathed in and out through his mouth, staring into the dark night sky. He told himself he was safe; the enemy had been subdued, and the fight was over. Too bad his stomach didn’t believe him.

Groans echoed from his left, and he dropped to his knees.

The Obsidian man face-down on the ground wore all black. But was he a patrolman or a camp guard? Marcos felt for a pulse with one hand. With the other, he checked for weapons.

Removing a pistol from a shoulder holster and kicking aside a rifle burned beyond use, Marcos assessed the man’s condition. His pulse was thready, but present. Where were the medics?

“Marcos!” Moses shouted to him from the other side of the alleyway.

“Yeah?”

“I think these are our old camp guards!” Moses removed weapons from an unmoving body.

Marcos rolled the man onto his back and realized Moses was right. The man had been a guard at their labor camp before they’d liberated it.

“Where are the medics?” Marcos asked the air.

“We’re over here!” a female voice shouted from deeper in the alleyway. “Patrols come first. Go one block east and another three blocks north to get an extra stretcher, then take any traitors still alive to our triage center.”

“Roger that,” Marcos replied, lifting his chin for Tío to join him.

“I can’t believe this,” Tío said as they walked toward the medic station. “I’ve never seen such devastation in my life.”

“I almost threw up back there,” Marcos said. “Who set off that bomb?”

“Britwell or Junior, or maybe the Secretary of State? But I intend to find out,” Tío said, his voice as hard as steel. “If any of our council members inside survived, they’ll have quite the story to tell.”

Marcos shivered with the reality of all the death, some of which he’d wrought.

They approached the medical triage center when a familiar form emerged from the tent’s shadows.

“Harriet!” Marcos whisper-shouted. Dez was the only other medic still in the tent.

“Marcos!”

Marcos wrapped her up in a tight hug.

She placed her mouth next to his ear and whispered, “What are you doing here? Are you nuts?”

She slapped his shoulder without letting go of him. He clasped her to him, taking in her warm vanilla scent. She was lightness and joy, and everything safe and warm. He told himself to breathe and act normally, to let her go, so no one accused them both of treason, but his body wouldn’t obey.

“Is everything okay out there? Have they gotten into the conference room yet?” asked Harriet.

“I don’t think so,” said Marcos, finally releasing Harriet, who stepped back and rubbed her arms up and down. “We were in the alleyway when another medic sent us here to get stretchers. But it didn’t look like anyone was coming out of the CAB with injured people.”

“Well, let’s get to work, then,” she said, her jaw tense. “Stretchers are over here. Bring injured into the tent. Stack the dead over there.” Harriet pointed toward a pile of empty body bags. Then she sprinted away from the tent and toward the alleyway.

Marcos watched her, his mouth gaping open at her transformation. The young woman who wouldn’t come to HQ — out of fear, he presumed — was not only running toward the scene of a battle, but confident in directing others’ efforts.

Shaking his head, Marcos turned toward the cloth stretchers. His gaze connected with Dez’s hard-eyed gaze again. Something about the guy bothered Marcos. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he didn’t like Dez. And evidently, the feeling was mutual.

Marcos nodded at him, then joined Tío in lifting a stretcher.

As Marcos emerged from the dark tent into the growing dawn, he saw Dez again. If looks could kill, Marcos would be dead.

50

Jason moaned at the pain. Every part of him screamed, but his left arm was the loudest.

Dust and shouts filled the air.

What had happened? He’d broken his arm before, but why did the rest of his body hurt?

“Jace? Jace? Are you awake?” a soft voice roused him. Gentle but icy hands pressed into his neck.

He flinched away.

“You’re awake!” Rose said. “Where do you hurt? Can you move?”

Shouts echoed through the space.

Jason opened his eyes to see Rose’s face inches from his. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, despite her wrinkled brow, the dust on her face, and her concerned expression. Had Jason never realized how beautiful Rose was? He exhaled loudly. Well, he’d noticed now.

“What hurts?” she repeated.

“Everything. Left arm,” he groaned. “Where am I?”

“The explosion after Junior fled down the tunnel blew you out here into the CAB lobby somehow. I have no idea how, since you were the closest person to the tunnel door. You’d just turned away and your left hand was still on the mirror’s frame when the entire place exploded.”

“Explosion. I have a vague memory. Which probably means I have a concussion.” Jason moved his right arm and his legs, sending lightning bolts of pain through him. The chandelier above him swayed. Or was that his vision?

“Actually, I’m sure you have a concussion based only on how long you were out.”

“But I’m ok. Truly. Go help others. I’ll drag myself to the medic.” Jason lifted his right arm and Rose pulled him up to sit.

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no way I’m letting you walk blocks away with a concussion.”

Now that she mentioned it, his head pounded. Jason rested his forehead against his right forearm, which was propped on top of his knee. The room spun, but there was no way he’d admit that right now.

Rose’s cool hand on his shoulder steadied him.

He lifted his head, black filling his vision. “Oh God.” Jason blinked several times before his vision cleared and he saw the extent of the destruction. Rubble and too-still bodies were everywhere in the lobby. “Where’s Sam? Your mom? And Andrew? Mr. Kim? My Da — Hudson?”

Rose squeezed his shoulder. He wiped his mouth, trying to clear the dust away, and realized it was a losing battle. He was covered in dust, but so was Rose.

“They’re still inside the council room. Foster has it under control. Won’t let me in, he said,” Rose said.

Jason patted his head, a cloud of dust and fine particles filing the air.

“Remember in that tunnel? Those boxes on the ceiling? I thought they were for ventilation. Those must’ve been the bombs that Junior triggered after he left. Must be.” He’d walked right past the bomb. “I totally missed it.”

That too-familiar feeling of taking responsibility for his father’s or Junior’s evil actions swelled inside Jason.

“We all did,” she said.

Rose’s words helped Jason push that responsibility, that sense of failing at something he could never have succeeded at, out of his head. It wasn’t his to own. And yes, they’d all missed it. Not like any of them had ever seen a bomb before.

“And now he’s long gone,” Jason said.

Rose sat facing him. He lifted his eyes to hers, then averted them. She was so close. Too close.

She frowned. “You didn’t fail, none of us did,” she said. He let her believe he still wallowed in that failure so he didn’t have to admit the truth about how she made him feel.

“At the worst,” she continued, “we prevented Junior and Hudson from getting their way. But let’s see if we still have a mayor and a city council before we rule this a failure. First things first, though. Let’s get you checked out and your arm splinted.”

She stood and extended a hand to Jason. He groaned as he stood, leaning against Rose while the room righted itself.

“Don’t think I’m missing how dizzy you are right now, Jason Britwell,” Rose said. “I’m tolerating it since you’re letting me support you. The minute that stops, you’re going back to the floor. So behave.”

“Behave,” Jason said. “I can do that.”

Rose steadied him with both hands on his chest. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, every place she touched igniting a fire. She gripped his chin in her palm and turned him to face her.

Perhaps Sam had been right to suspect Jason’s feelings for Rose were more than just friendship? How had his partner seen something Jason wasn’t even aware of himself? He leaned into her touch, as if that’s all he’d ever have, because how could a relationship work out between them? It couldn’t.

“One more thing before we move on from this moment,” Rose said. “Jason, you didn’t fail. We didn’t fail. We prevented disaster.”

The thunder in her expression made him flinch, and he opened his mouth.

“No but’s, if only’s, or should’ve’s.” Jason slammed his mouth shut. “If you and Sam hadn’t been there, the entire council — or at least the decent ones — would be dead,” she continued, not letting Jason speak. “My mom and I couldn’t have done it on our own, don’t know why I thought we could. But now? There’s hope some are alive. You’re wrong about feeling anything negative about what you did today, and you just need to accept it.”

“Yep,” Jason said, pressing his lips together. “You’re right.”

Rose growled as she dragged him away, an arm around his waist pulling him forward one stumbling step at a time. “Foster better be okay with me helping you to the medics, because I don’t see anyone else around with two uninjured hands free to do the job.”

Jason tried to chuckle, but the motion made his side scream. Maybe he was more injured than he realized?

Rose navigated him around another door and an overturned desk before emerging into the light of early morning. Jason froze, forcing Rose to stop as well. They watched everyone scrambling around.

Patrols had everything in hand. The Ivory and Obsidian patrols worked together seamlessly, like in a dream world.

A line of militia fighters in zip ties sat with their backs against the CAB portico.

A pair of medics carried an injured rep past them, running once they descended the steps.

Different people from different areas. Not interacting, but in the same room, working toward the same goal. Things in Queenstown were changing. Jason pulled in a deep breath and pain shot through his side.

“Ok, let’s go,” he said.

Jason and Rose followed the medics carrying the injured representative. Jason's left forearm throbbed with every step and stumble over debris. Of course, he wasn’t watching where he was going. There was too much to look at. And even with Rose’s arm around his waist, he kept stumbling or losing his vision, forcing her to halt.

They finally arrived at the medic tent behind the Obsidian Patrol’s command center. He nodded to the Obsidian captain, who barked orders into his communicator.

“Get that back dock secured now! Why isn’t it secured yet?”

Jason winced. He and Sam had cleared the dock. That meant militia fighters had arrived after that. There was nothing Jason could do about it. Probably by then they’d been inside the council room, ending the conflict.

“I bet Harriet is here,” Rose said, her voice pitched low.

They entered the medic tent, Jason temporarily blinded by the relative darkness.

Rose pointed to where Harriet worked to stabilize a patient. She’d cut the man’s pants leg off and secured a tourniquet. Blood stained her uniform top red from her hands to her elbows.

“What’s wrong with you?” an Obsidian woman asked, her eyes zeroing in on his arm cradled to his chest. “Is it broken?” She finally looked at him. No smile. Nothing.

“Yes, ma’am. I think it’s broken. And I think I’m okay otherwise.”

“How’s your head?” she turned to Rose. “Given you’re holding him up, I’m guessing he’s not too stable?”

“That’s right, Ma’am. I found him unconscious,” Rose said.

“Alright, let’s get you looked at.”

The older woman gestured for them to sit on the ground. “Harriet will take care of you when she’s done over there. A fracture and concussion will seem easy after that GSW. Next!”

She moved on to an Obsidian patrolman with blood dripping down his fingertips. “Zaye, what happened? Didn’t I see you pulling others from the rubble?” She led the patrolman to a stretcher on the other side of the tent, and their conversation was lost to the chaos.

Harriet barked orders at two Obsidian patrolmen as they wheeled a man into an ambulance. Once the patrolmen slammed the rear doors, the ambulance screamed off.

The two patrolmen grabbed a stretcher, carrying it between them, as they walked back toward the CAB. Jason could see the sweat that poured down their temples and he wondered how awful the fight had been outside the CAB.

“All right, what happened?” Harriet examined Jason head to toe, not addressing either of them by name.

Right. They shouldn’t know each other.

Jason told Harriet about the explosion and being thrown twenty feet as she guided him toward a treatment space. She leaned in. “I’m so relieved to see you both. Thank you for not attacking me like someone else did.”

Jason chuckled. “I think I know who that was.”

“Marcos Sanchez himself,” Harriet said. “In the flesh. I still don’t know how you all got into Central, but boy was I glad to see him.”

Jason eased his arm away from his chest as Harriet quickly snipped off the end of his sleeve.

Rose walked around the back of the cot, a hand on his back, leaning in. Harriet chatted while she wrapped his arm and nestled it in a sling. She then checked his pupils.

“You need a full cast, Jason. Go to the hospital tomorrow. They’re kind of busy today. Was it bad?” She palpated his scalp. Jason winced at a tender spot. “I saw that.” She probed the spot thoroughly, then nodded.

“It was awful. The entire place came down on us. And the door into the conference room was blocked,” Rose said. “Ivory patrols had just gotten in and were bringing over the first council rep when we came here.”

“Now, about your head. Your pupils are fine and I see no sign of a bleed inside your skull, but from what you said happened, you have a concussion.”

“I’m fine. I have a thick skull,” Jason stared at Harriet, pleading silently with her not to make a big deal.

“You’re not fine,” Harriet said. “No sleeping for the next twelve hours, then only with someone else watching you and checking on you. We can’t lose you.”

Harriet’s eyes drifted to Rose, and her eyebrows lifted. Rose shrugged in reply. “I’ll walk him back to the CAB to his unit, make sure he doesn’t collapse. Then find someone to stay with him tonight.”

“And I’m going to the hospital tomorrow, remember? The cast? An X-ray?”

Jason knew the broken bone drill. But his head wasn’t broken. Maybe he had a concussion, which was a normal thing in Ivory football. He’d already decided he had better things to do than wait for hours while the hospital staff dealt with trauma patients.

“I need to return to the CAB, to find my father underneath the rubble.”

Harriet frowned. “That’s way too much activity.”

Rose’s sigh drew Jason’s attention. “I thought we decided you’re not responsible for your father or Junior? Junior got away. But the council would be dead if you and Sam hadn’t been there.”

“Amen. I’m thankful you’re all right,” said Harriet.

He was still going to help clear the rubble. Jason couldn’t imagine how his father had survived that explosion, but somehow Jason had been thrown clear. He needed to know his father was dead. Or arrested again, if he'd survived.

Harriet raised her voice and spoke to Rose. “Don’t leave him. You’re the only one who knows his condition. I know we’re not supposed to mingle, but…” she shrugged, taking the trash from the splint with her to the next patient.

“Hey, Harriet, where do you want the dead bodies?” an Obsidian patrolman asked. He and another patrolman carried a stretcher with a dusty and bloody man, his right leg completely missing. Jason shuddered.

Harriet gestured toward a line of lumps shrouded under a massive black tarp. Jason averted his gaze from the pile. Too much death today, and he was sure they’d be adding to that pile as the day went on.

“Have someone with comms summon the Obsidian and Havana funeral directors, the mortician in Ivory, and the cremator in Little Asia. Tell them to bring lots of bags. We’re going to need them.”

Jason and Rose walked away, the sound of Harriet barking orders fading.

***

“What now?” Rose asked. “Should I get you home? Who’s going to watch you with that concussion?”

“Let’s go back to the CAB. I need to find Sam, and you must be worried about your mother,” Jason said.

Rose steadied him as they walked. They approached the CAB and the combination of burning things, smoke, and gunpowder made Jason pinch his nose closed. Marcos bounded up to them as they reached the portico, his arm in a sling.

“Hey, amigos!” he yelled, drawing attention before reaching for a typical Havana embrace.

Jason held his right arm out. “Broken arm, please don’t.” And this wasn’t the best place to show everyone they knew one another.

“Aw, that stinks. Rose!”

Marcos embraced Rose with one arm, releasing her with a laugh.

“He failed to mention he has a concussion, too,” said Rose. “And what did you do?”

“Graze wound, that’s all.”

Jason scanned their surroundings. Had anyone heard Marcos’s greeting them by name? But no one paid them any attention. Jason and Marcos had a good reason to know each other — the labor camp — but that failed to explain how they both knew Rose.

Marcos replaced Rose at Jason’s side, and they entered the CAB, Rose trailing them. “You ok, amigo?” Marcos said, his voice pitched low.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Not my first cast. Or my first concussion.”

“Bonders.”

Rose tucked into his left side, carefully avoiding his left arm in its splint and sling. He grinned down at her. No way would he blackout with these two practically holding him up.

“Don’t I know about that? I broke a leg playing soccer a few years ago. No fun. Crutches, cast, the whole thing.”

“A broken arm is easy. Nurse Harriet said his concussion is worse than a broken bone, and he needs to be watched,” Rose said.

“Whatever. I’ve dealt with those before too,” Jason said. He’d conveniently forgotten Harriet had said he’d needed someone to watch him sleep. He’d be fine.

As they stood outside the council room, waiting for patrols to clear more rubble, Marcos told them how his small group had subdued the warehouse guards, then had posted up in sniper position to help Ivory patrols defeat the militia at the portico. Rose flinched when Marcos talked about the stun grenade, the guards getting away, and their view of the explosion’s aftermath. Evidently, Moses and Abuela had helped afterward, but had left, not wanting an Obsidian patrolman to recognize Moses. And they’d rounded up the rest of the Underground operatives on their way out.

“That’s nuts,” said Jason.

“That warehouse is definitely launch control for Martin’s new weapon,” Rose said, her arms crossed.

“It has a whole lot of computing power, that’s for sure,” said Marcos.

“That’s amazing how you all backed up my colleagues,” said Jason. “Junior got away right before triggering that bomb. But Hudson is still in the rubble. As is Rose’s mother and Sam, and a bunch of others. We need to get inside and help search.”

Rose smacked his shoulder. “I think that’s a colossally bad idea, Jason. You’re one-armed and have a concussion.”

“She’s right. You’ve done enough already. We all did — as a team. That’s what’s so amazing. We did this together, across area lines. Against evil people with resources. Proves Martin’s divisions are unnecessary.”

“Marcos is right,” Rose said. “And we’ve already been through this. Harriet said to rest, so rest you will. Even if you hate it.”

Jason hung his head, hating that they were probably right. Maybe they’d let him just sit inside the rubble zone and watch while everyone else cleared pieces?

“Do you think after all this, the city will open the gates between areas?” asked Marcos, drawing Jason’s gaze up.

Jason grimaced. He doubted that would happen so quickly.

“I hope so,” Rose said. “But Queenstown might not be ready for that yet. We’ll see.”

Jason stepped toward the conference room. “Looks like Ivory patrols cleared the council room doorway.”

Rose raised her eyebrows at his splinted arm.

“Well, maybe I can be a spotter or help direct,” said Jason.

“Yeah, amigo, I’m not much better.” Marcos lifted his arm also in a sling. “Come on, let’s find your dad. Maybe find mine, too.”

Jason smacked his forehead lightly. “Oh, I forgot. Marcos! Last I saw, your father was alive. He’d gotten shot but was ok. Sorry, should’ve led with that.”

Rose placed a hand on Jason’s chest, and his heart rate sped up at her touch. “No. No more apologies today, Jason.”

“Yes, only celebrating,” Marcos said. “And a lot of digging. But not you or I. Thanks for letting me know about my hocico de cerdo of a father.”

He stepped away from Rose, telling himself to focus on the situation instead of her touch.

“So tell me how this went down, Jason,” Marcos said as they entered the council room. “Where everyone was, what happened.”

Jason and Rose described the gun battle and the chaos of the fighting, and Marcos gestured around the room, choreographing the battle.

“Alright, let’s search over there.” Marcos pointed to a pile of rubble by what remained of the outside wall.

Other patrolmen piled rubble in the lobby, systematically clearing the room and occasionally calling for quiet when they heard something.

Jason looked at the enormity of the situation — the outer wall collapsed inward, and part of the next level caved in on top of it all — and wondered if they’d ever find Sophie, Sam, Hudson, or Marcos’s father.

They had to, though. Jason needed Sam. He was part of their team.

Shoving aside the thought of more death, Jason joined Marcos at the head of a line passing rubble brick by brick, drywall chunk by drywall chunk, off a gigantic pile. He sat on top of the pile, his arm cradled in front of him, watching the destruction slowly and painstakingly disappear.

51

Marcos picked through the rubble pile, passing chunks one-handed to the next person in the rubble removal line. His father ought to be around here somewhere, or so Rose had said. But Jason and Rose had both been blown clear out of the room. No telling where others had ended up, given how powerful that explosion had been.

Marcos’s feelings flew from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other as he dug. He felt anticipation at seeing Hector Alvarez injured, which Rose had warned him about. It was cruel repayment for how he’d treated his own son. Marcos also felt dread at seeing Hector dead or injured, leaving his mama and Flavia on their own.

He wanted to see Hector so Marcos could prove his father wrong about everything Hector had accused him of before. But Marcos didn’t want to answer questions or experience the letdown of being told he wasn’t good enough. Yet again.

Whatever. Marcos wanted to get this over with.

That no one had stopped him from entering the CAB and helping with rubble removal told Marcos that not only did Ivory and Obsidian patrols not know who he was, but also that everyone was singularly focused on finding survivors. Maybe they thought he was a Havana driver summoned by one of the patrol captains?

A pair of Ivory patrolmen lifted a large portion of what used to be a conference table, and Marcos ducked away from its girth.

“Help.” A barely there whisper sent Marcos diving around the table piece.

His father lay strewn across chunks of chairs, cement, brick pieces, and shattered wallboard, blood covering him. “Marcos,” his father said again. “Help me. Don’t let me die here.”

Marcos sat back on his heels, stunned to have found his abusive father in such a vulnerable position. Hector Alvarez never put himself at anyone else’s mercy. But here he was, bleeding and begging the son he’d sent to a secret labor camp to help him.

Marcos caught Rose’s gaze. She lifted her shoulders as if to say, “It’s up to you.”

Marcos inhaled a deep breath, then exhaled, a groan leaving his lips along with air. He’d do this for Flavia. And Mami. Definitely not for his father’s sake. He didn’t want Flavia and Mami to suffer.

“Where are you hurt?” Marcos asked.

“I’m shot. Leg and shoulder.” His father’s raspy breath alarmed Marcos. “Everything hurts.”

“Where in the shoulder? Which shoulder? Is your back injured? Do we need a board?” All Marcos could think about was Win taking a bullet in the lung during their fight to liberate the labor camp and dying before they could get her to the hospital.

“Marcos, take care of your mother and sister,” said Hector, his eyes closing. “Hurts.” His head lolled to the side, and Marcos pressed his fingers into his father’s neck. Still alive.

“No, you don’t, you old hocico de cerdo,” Marcos said, jumping to his feet and waving his lone working arm for help. “Grab a stretcher! I found a Havana council rep alive!”

A patrolman scrambled off the rubble pile and into the lobby, returning with a cloth and wood stretcher. His father was no small man, and Marcos examined the rubble, working out how they’d extract his father’s body without further injuring him.

The Ivory patrolman and Marcos worked together, tossing aside chunks of concrete, brick, ceiling, metal, and glass. Marcos gasped at the unnatural angle in his father’s leg and the stream of blood coming from it. He quickly tore a strip off his shirt, handing it to the patrolman to wrap tightly above the gunshot wound and obvious fracture point. It would have to do until they could get Hector to the hospital for surgery.

“Some help over here!” the patrolman called to a nearby Obsidian patrol officer.

Marcos moved aside, and the two team-lifted Hector, one lifting his shoulders and the other his feet, laying him on the cloth stretcher, then lifting the stretcher and climbing out of the destroyed council conference room.

Marcos trailed the patrol officers toward the medic tent. The entire way, he wished they could go faster, or that he could help.

“Two gunshot wounds, one bleeding a whole lot,” Marcos barked at Harriet as they entered the medic tent. The patrolmen set Hector, still unconscious, onto an empty table. “We put a tourniquet on his thigh, but his breathing sounds rough.”

The patrolmen left him, taking the stretcher with them.

Hector stirred, his head turning toward Marcos, and his eyes widening. “How…here?”

“You don’t need to know everything, but we prisoners liberated the labor camp weeks ago. I brought a small group here to help defend the CAB and hopefully rescue you. We knew patrols would be outnumbered.”

Marcos shrugged, eager to get this conversation over with now he knew his father had survived. It felt weird talking with his father as if they had a normal relationship. And Marcos felt torn. He wanted his father to survive what was obviously a horrible gunshot wound. But he also wanted his father to pay for how he’d abused Marcos.

Hector’s eyes closed, and his words were thready. “Mendoza. Had to fix the camp. Sent you.”

A buzzing began in Marcos’s ears, drawing out his father’s words. Hector had known what Marcos would face and had still sent him out there? How could his father do that? Could he be any more cruel, any more twisted? And to claim he sent Marcos out as a prisoner to fix the labor camp? That was rich and not anything Marcos would believe.

“Marcos, not now,” Harriet’s gaze lifted to his, and she shook her head. “Step away. I’ve got him stabilized and he needs to get to Central Hospital ASAP. Plus, I doubt he’ll remember any of this.”

Harriet turned, her gloved hands covered in his father’s blood. She gestured for an Obsidian patrol officer to help place Hector in a waiting ambulance. The vehicle screamed away toward the Central Hospital.

Marcos was left standing in the middle of the street, staring. He shook his head and returned to the medic tent.

Harriet removed her gloves, dripping water from a bottle over both the gloves and her hands until they were cleaned of his father’s blood. She then submerged both into a bath of water — and Marcos hoped detergent — to sterilize them.

“Will he live?”

Harriet shrugged. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“But surgery will fix him, right?”

“Maybe,” Harriet said, squaring her body to face him. “Marcos, prepare yourself for him not to survive.” Harriet set her sterilized gloves into a clean basin, then gripped his uninjured forearm.

“What he said—” Marcos cut his own words off. Could he believe what Hector had said or was this his father’s dying mind trying to whitewash his own past?

“Don’t worry about that. We both know the truth. I don’t know what our city will be like after this night, but I’m telling you nothing will be the same. It can’t be. People from separated areas have all met each other now. Even if it’s only patrol officers, medics, and our people.”

Marcos wrapped her in a hug. “I missed you so much, Hari. We all have.”

A throat cleared behind him, and Harriet stepped out of his embrace, dropping her arms to her sides and her chin to her chest.

“How do you two know each other well enough to hug?” said an Obsidian medic, her hands on her ample hips and her eyebrows sky high.

“I—” Harriet started, but Marcos cut her off. He couldn’t let her take the blame for his impulsivity.

“My father might die, and I couldn’t help myself, señora,” Marcos said. He missed Harriet’s warmth and wanted his arms around her again but took another step away instead. “I’m so sorry. It’s our Havana way.”

“Don’t let it happen again.” The medic waved a hand and walked away.

Harriet released a long breath.

“I should go,” said Marcos, walking backward, his gaze steady on Harriet.

“Yeah, see you around,” Harriet waved, already heading for the next stretcher arriving into the medic tent. But before she dove into action, she flashed him a small smile and the sign for “safe messenger.”

Maybe Harriet would return to HQ after all this. Marcos missed her.

52

Jason cradled his broken arm to his chest, picking out small rubble using his free hand, despite Rose’s scowling at him every time he lifted something.

Periodically, all activity in the room would pause, and he’d listen. So far, they’d found Hector Sanchez and several other council reps. And they had located the Little Asian woman whose body had become target practice for Hudson Britwell. But no sign of Sophie, Sam, or Jason’s father.

“I swear he was here when the bombs went off,” said Jason, pointing away from the edge of the council meeting room, where the explosions had carved a hole in the street below and toward the front of the CAB.

Last Jason remembered he’d been trying to open the hidden door behind the mirror and having no success. Everything was a blur, so maybe he’d moved toward the lobby doors before the explosion? He couldn't remember. But he was glad he’d been thrown out of the room, otherwise Jason doubted he’d have survived.

Part of the second floor had collapsed onto the first. The third floor hung precariously in the balance. They needed to dig everyone out and vacate this place before the entire side of the building came down on them.

“He could’ve crawled away,” said Rose. “You zip-tied him up, right?”

“Right. And he was shot in the shoulder. I’d flipped him onto his stomach. How far could he have gone?”

“And where would he have headed? Toward the tunnel or the door into the lobby?”

“The tunnel,” said Jason. “He would’ve tried to follow Junior.”

They moved from the north end of the room, where Jason had subdued his own father, to the area right above the now-destroyed tunnel.

“Let’s dig this out,” he said, passing bricks and other random building materials to Rose, who passed them to the rubble brigade for removal into the lobby. Another pair of patrolmen stepped forward to remove larger chunks, carrying them outside.

A shout arose from the north end, where they’d just been, and a pair of Obsidian patrolmen pulled Rose’s mom out of the rubble.

Rose vaulted over the rubble between her and her mother with ease, then clung to her mother. Sophie raised a hand to Rose’s cheek.

“You’re alive?” Rose shouted.

A small smile spread across Sophie’s face. “Takes more than that to kill me. But everywhere hurts.”

“We have to get you to the medic tent,” Rose said.

Sophie pushed Rose’s hands aside and caught Jason’s eye. Rose helped her mother up, a hand steadying her.

“I’m okay,” Sophie said. “Looks like there are others you need to help find. Go help that young man over there with the cast.” Sophie winked at Jason, whose eyes widened.

“B — but,” Rose stammered.

“No arguing,” said Sophie. “This helpful patrolman will make sure I get to the medics.” Sophie leaned on a nearby Ivory patrolman’s arm and the two picked their way off the rubble pile.

As Rose’s mother left the room, she heard her ask about Mr. Kim, saying the mayor was her boss and she’d come to the CAB to protect him.

“How are you?” Jason asked once Rose rejoined him.

“That was… so weird,” said Rose. “How was she not more injured?”

Jason shrugged. Nothing about this explosion fit the patterns he’d expected.

“Anyway, shall we keep digging?” Rose asked. “We still need to find Sam and Hudson.”

They passed piece after piece, stirring up a thick dust cloud which drifted away from them and into the alleyway with the wind. A piece of thick metal rebar stuck out of the pile. Jason tried to yank it out, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Can you help me with this? I need two hands,” said Jason, gesturing Rose toward the metal protruding from the pile.

“You shouldn’t even be tugging on that. No straining,” said Rose.

Had Harriet said that, too? Or was Rose just making stuff up now?

“Let’s try anyway,” Jason said.

Rose sighed, but relented, placing her hands alongside his on the metal bar. But as hard as they tugged, it didn’t even wiggle.

“Let’s keep digging around it. There’s probably a big concrete block or some construction piece still attached to its other end,” said Rose.

Others team lifted a larger chunk of concrete. A pair of patrolmen rushed forward to remove the next larger chunks, while Rose and Jason moved on to smaller bits.

“Could we be wrong?” Jason asked.

“We aren’t even midway down yet,” said Rose. She gestured to the cleared floor at the lobby end of the room. “We have at least another four feet. Let’s keep at it.”

Jason wiped the sweat off his brow with his upper arm, stretching his back. His working arm ached more than he’d admit. And he just wanted to be done with this. He wanted closure. Someone called a halt, and the room fell silent. Thready calls for help from the north end sent a team in that direction. Jason motioned for several patrolmen to remain in this area.

“Ok, that’s enough rest,” he said, diving back into rubble removal.

They worked like that for what seemed like an eternity but was punctuated with four different calls for silence.

“I see something,” said Rose. “From my angle it looks like clothing.”

The patrolmen team-lifted a three-foot section of the ceiling and sub-flooring away, and Jason nearly fainted at the sight.

The metal rebar piece pinned his father in place. The cement block, still attached, rested on Hudson Britwell’s unmoving chest.

Jason fell to his knees in the debris, pain piercing his kneecaps, but he hardly noticed.

Rose launched into the space, a hand on his father’s neck, then shook her head.

Hudson Britwell was dead.

53

“Jason,” said Rose. She jostled his uninjured arm, but he stared at his father, ignoring her.

Hudson Britwell had gotten a far better death than he deserved. The rebar and concrete block must’ve killed him instantly, though the blood patterns spattering the area told her his death had been gruesome, to say the least.

Rose reached down and closed Hudson’s unseeing eyes, her hands meeting supple, but cooling flesh.

“Jason,” she jostled his arm again. “Let’s leave this to the recovery team.” Anything to get him moving. Maybe she could distract him with finding Sam, but then she remembered Harriet’s words. No, she needed Jason sitting in one place. It was the best for him right now. Rose would keep searching for Sam.

He stood, still staring blankly at his father. “I’m an orphan now.” His mouth opened and shut, and his face was slack.

“Come on. If you faint on me, I won’t be able to carry you.”

Rose tugged his arm, and they stumbled over the rubble and off the pile. She gestured for the nearest Ivory patrolman to replace them, adding a cutting motion across her throat to indicate a body.

She refused to call Hudson Britwell a victim, even inside her head. He was no victim. He got his justice, even if she preferred a trial and a lengthy prison sentence. Or better yet, the same execution he’d ordered for others.

At least Jason didn’t have to endure that level of emotional torture.

They left the lobby behind and exited the CAB into the bright sunlight. The portico buzzed with activity. She pushed Jason down gently against one of the thick pillars, crouching beside him.

“Will you stay here?”

Jason lifted his head, and their gazes connected. Rose sucked in a breath at the pain showing on his face.

“Oh, Jason. I’m so sorry. I know he was an awful man, but he was your father.”

“Rose,” Mr. Kim’s familiar voice tugged at her attention, and she turned to watch he and Andrew Stewart holding each other up as they left the lobby. “You’re okay?”

Rose nodded. “But Jason isn’t.” She stood and gestured for Andrew Stewart to lean in. “We just found Hudson Britwell. Killed by a section of rebar through his chest.”

Andrew closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “That’s a relief. But also Jason staring into space right now makes sense.”

Peter Kim held his side. “I’m glad we don’t have to deal with him. But that’s tough, finding your own father like that. Even if he was an evil—"

“Shouldn’t you two see the medics?” she cut him off. Jason didn’t need to hear whatever Peter Kim had to say about his father. He already knew it.

Both shook their heads.

“We were far enough away, but were both trapped behind the bookshelf,” said Peter Kim. “It spared us injury from all the debris. How did you survive?”

“Jason and I both got thrown into the lobby, clear away from the rubble and everything. Sam’s still missing.”

“I’m going to go find whoever is in charge and get an update,” Peter Kim said.

“I’ll stay here with Jason,” said Andrew. “Rose, you go back in and find Sam.” He wiped the dust from his face with a frown, cleaning his hand off on his equally dusty pants. “That did no good. Anyway, I’ll keep Jason company.”

“Alright,” said Rose. “Thanks.”

She ran back into the building and onto the rubble pile, resuming her search for Sam close to where they’d left off before. Hudson Britwell’s body had been removed, the gaping hole in the rubble giving her chills.

She worked with several Ivory patrolmen nearby, passing chunks of building material back through the line. A groan emanated from the pile to her right, closer to the lobby doors than where they’d found Hudson Britwell, and Rose yelled for quiet.

In the silence, she heard the unmistakable sounds of a male voice in pain, and the team dug frantically toward it.

“I found a foot!” the patrolman ahead of her yelled and Rose’s emotions soared.

Had they found Sam?

They worked in two locations, Rose and another patrolman still digging toward where they’d heard the groan, while another pair uncovered the booted foot and black-clad leg. Before long, the others had completely uncovered a body. Rose stared into the unseeing eyes of her kidnapper. Lin was dead.

“That’s one of the militia from Little Asia,” she said, pointing at the dead man. “But how did he get back in the room?” Rose frowned. “He’d fled into the lobby.”

The patrolmen’s eyes widened, then got even bigger as she admitted she had been inside the room during the battle.

“Oh, Captain Foster cleared me already, so you can relax,” said Rose. “I was here to protect the mayor.”

Her shoulders dropped and her breathing slowed, as if seeing Lin dead now meant Rose didn’t have to fear his reprisal against her. He was an evil man, and she was glad he’d gotten what he’d deserved. She wished she’d been the one to mete out justice, though. Or maybe it was better she hadn’t. No guilt on her conscience that way.

Thankfully, the two men didn’t push for more information, focusing instead on locating the source of the groans, which had started up again.

The Ivory patrolman peered through a gap in the rubble. “It’s Officer Truett!” he said.

Nearly everyone in the room rushed to help dig out a groaning Sam. They found him in a human-sized hole, a perfect fit for his body. He lay cradled in the fetal position, tucked behind a heavy chair and against one of the overturned tables.

“Are you hurt?”

“What hurts?”

Questions barreled at Sam, who blinked at the light and sat up. “I think I’m good,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “My head hurts. But I’ve felt worse after a rough football game.”

“Let’s not go anywhere too fast, Truett,” a stocky Ivory patrolman said. “The medics need to check you out. At the very least to evaluate you for a concussion.”

“Yeah, I might have one of those,” Sam said, shutting his eyes and covering them with his hand.

“I’ll take him to the medic tent so you all can keep digging,” said Rose.

The stocky patrol officer nodded to her and gestured for the others to keep clearing rubble, searching for more victims and survivors.

She placed his hands on her shoulders. “Follow me, Sam,” said Rose, as they climbed over the rubble pile toward the lobby. “Step where I step.”

“I think I’m okay,” said Sam.

“No, you’re not. That officer ordered you to the medic tent, so it’s to the medic tent you go. Be careful. Everything is unstable.”

When they’d reached the lobby, Sam dropped his hands. “What happened?”

Rose filled Sam in on everything, Sam’s eyes softening at hearing Hudson Britwell hadn’t survived the explosion.

They exited the lobby into the bright sunlight and stopped next to Jason. “Look who I found!”

Jason rose to his feet and nearly tackled Sam in a one-armed hug. “I thought we’d lost you!”

“Going to take more than a little explosion to get rid of me,” said Sam.

“I’m so glad to see you in one piece,” said Jason as he stepped back. “Are you hurt? We have medics here.”

Sam waggled his head back and forth. “I was unconscious for most of the time after the explosion. And when I did wake up, it was to a pounding head. So maybe a concussion?”

“I’ve got one of those, too,” said Jason as he sat down. “We’ll be quite the pair at home tonight.”

“Sam, it’s good to see you made it out of there alive,” said Andrew Stewart, exchanging an Ivory handshake with Sam.

“You too, sir,” said Sam. “I need to sit for a second before we go to the medic tent.”

Rose grimaced, but helped Sam lower himself to the ground. He groaned and grabbed at his head.

“Leaning forward wasn’t the best idea,” said Sam.

“I’m not sure this is going to work, Sam,” said Rose.

“Definitely a concussion,” said Andrew. “Get a few minutes’ rest, then Rose is right. We need to head to the medics. Our friend is going to want to look you over before she clears you to go home. And I think I’ll be staying with you two tonight, make sure you’re okay. A pair of concussions for a pair of friends. How fitting.”

“The last concussion I had was when Sam tackled me in a practice game,” said Jason. “Do you remember that?”

“Highlight of my defensive career,” said Sam. “We were on the same team, and the only time I could take pot-shots at the fancy quarterback was during scrimmages. The coach wasn’t too happy with me if I hit too hard, though.”

Rose laughed behind her hand while the two continued to trade football stories back and forth. None of it made any sense to her. Quarterback. Safety. Defensive back. Blitz. It was another language.

“Alright,” she said, pushing to her feet. “Enough sports talk. It’s time to get you looked at, Sam. Though I’m happy you remember details about games played years ago. That’s a good sign, I think.”

She tugged Jason to stand while Andrew helped Sam. She and Andrew positioned themselves on either side of Sam and Jason, and they headed to find Harriet at the medic tent.

54

Harriet peered into Sam’s pupils, checking for light reactivity. He winced at the motion, but stayed still. She then palpated his skull.

“No fractures or areas of particular concern. But you have a concussion,” said Harriet. “The hospital is overrun with traumas. I’ll release you to go home as long as someone stays with you and Jason overnight. No lifting, no running, and be gentle with your bodies. They took a real beating, and honestly I don’t know how you’re not more injured.”

She’d already felt along Sam’s limbs, probed his abdomen, and tested along his rib cage for fractures. He was lucky to have escaped serious injury if Rose were right about how close he'd been to the blast.

“Okay, I’m staying with these two. I’ll call for help, if needed,” said Andrew. “Thank you, Harriet.”

“You must be exhausted,” Rose said as she leaned in to whisper to Harriet, wrapping her arms around Harriet’s shoulders. “And I better see you at HQ after all this.”

Harriet dropped her arms and stepped back, checking around them to make sure that no one had seen the hug. She’d already gotten in trouble for hugging Marcos. She couldn’t afford a second warning from Renee, who now acted as the head medic, since Dara had been injured. “We’ll see,” Harriet said.

She waved to the group as they headed off, the three men toward Ivory and Rose toward Little Asia.

“Status update?” Harriet asked.

Dez was the only other medic in the tent. Harriet frowned. Where was everyone else? They’d had to call in the rest of the medic staff, an all-call they’d never done before, according to Kelvin.

“I’ll go check with one of the patrol captains, but it seems like we may be done…?” he ended his statement on a question.

Harriet wondered the same thing, but ignored Dez's question. She rinsed her hands in a splash of bottled water, then sanitized them and busied herself tidying up their remaining supplies. Dara had been right to have them roll extra bandages. They were nearly out. And the IV’s had run out hours ago.

She left the tent and walked toward the rows of body bags. The sight sobered Harriet. People lost their lives today. Too many. Mostly militia fighters, though two city councilmen also died. One woman, one man. Plus, who knew how many patrol officers?

Queenstown had paid a steep price to stop Britwell and Junior.

And the Underground had somehow remained in the shadows, despite sending fighters to back up patrols.

But for all the inter-area cooperation today, she still couldn’t yet cross into another area to see her friends. Maybe with the end of Britwell’s era, the open spots on the city council which the Underground could now load with operatives, and the discovery of the prison camps, Queenstown would change. They had a huge opportunity, but would the council seize it?

And where would the freed camp prisoners, many of whom were of mixed descent, live? They couldn’t stay where they were for much longer. The Underground would soon run out of resources.

Harriet eyed the rows of unoccupied buildings in Central. Maybe the areas could mix in Central, learning about each other without the dividing walls.

As she turned back toward the medic tent, she ran into a broad chest and bounced backward.

Strong arms gripped her forearms and steadied her.

“Harriet, can we talk?” Her uncle had cleaned his face and hair of the dust that still filled the air in Central, though his patrol uniform remained several shades too light.

She stared at him, her heart rate speeding up and her face flushing. Captain Johnson escorted her away from the medic tent. Other medics had returned and were busy cleaning up the tent and storing their meager supplies away into large tubs, leaving her alone with her uncle for the first time in her memory.

She ripped her arm away from him.

“I’d like to talk with you,” he said.

“Uncle, why should I speak to you?” Harriet folded her arms across her chest. “You killed my father and my best friend. I can’t look at you and not remember that day — which you made me watch!”

She threw her hands in the air.

“I’m finally coming to terms with it all. And now this. Today. How do you think this makes me feel? Having to put down a rebellion? What you accused my gentle, loving father of wasn’t right.” She stomped on that last word. “He loved this nation and only wanted to see its people free, prospering, able to choose their own lives. He would’ve had nothing to do with this bloodbath.”

“He was a careless dreamer.” The captain turned his hat in his hands, examining the bill. “Your father always had friends. People who listened to him. But today? What happened today has nothing to do with my brother — or does it?”

He eyed her, and Harriet nearly slapped him. “How dare you accuse me of collaborating with Britwell! How dare you even think I would side with someone so evil! But mark my words, Uncle, you now have a choice. Fight for the people of the city or keep trampling on them. Spying on your own family! Yes, I’ve noticed it, and it’s gotta stop! Don’t get me started.”

Harriet walked away, hands on her hips. If she were a character on one of those stupid United Korean cartoon docudramas the Martin regime ran on the rec TVs, she’d have steam coming out of her ears.

She faced her uncle, her hands propped onto her hips. “My mother and I have done nothing against you, the Obsidian Patrols, the area administrators, or the city. All we’ve done is believe in a better tomorrow! Is it a crime to support leaders who’ll put the interests of the citizens of Queenstown first?”

Her mother had shared the new directives from Martin’s office with her, but Britwell and his allies had blocked them all. Little things like opening the college admission to public review instead of the process being shrouded in secrecy. Martin hadn’t overhauled the corrupt system, though. To Harriet, it was like putting lipstick on a pig.

Her uncle’s mouth dangled open.

“No, young lady, it is not,” Mr. White, an Obsidian city council representative, interjected as he joined them.

Captain Johnson shut his mouth.

She pointed to one, then the other. “You leaders have an opportunity. You can either keep propping up the same broken systems, which give certain families preference over others and repress the ordinary citizens of your areas, or you can think outside of that box.” Harriet clapped her hands, anger flushing her neck and face. “Britwell built that box up. He created these systems of oppression in our city. And if he didn’t create the box, he made it bigger, more oppressive. Take the medical school spots, for instance.”

At this, she pointed a finger at Captain Johnson. “I had the top score in Obsidian. Did you know that? Surely, you did. Am I on the medical school track? No! I’m a medic. Not even going to college. All because you executed my father for treason ten years ago, and you, someone else, or the system can’t get over that!”

Harriet dropped her hands to her sides; she was certain her uncle would arrest her for verbally assaulting him.

Instead, Mr. White nodded. “Yes, Britwell, Mendoza, and their alliance took over college placements. Bullied it away from Mr. Kim and I, as a matter of fact. We’ll review everything Hudson Britwell dipped his fingers into over the coming days.”

Harriet’s eyes widened.

“And Harriet, you’re right about something else,” Captain Johnson said as he paced. “I definitely listened to Mr. King,” referring to the other Obsidian city council rep who allied with Britwell and whose body lay shrouded under the nearby tarp. “And well, everything he told me now has a different color to it. Plus, we know who was behind all the missing items from our distro and market, and it wasn’t your mother or your family.”

Harriet tracked him back and forth until he stopped in front of her, forcing her to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

“Corruption has no place in our city. Captain Foster and I will root it out in the coming days. I won’t tolerate rebellion, but I also want our citizens to have more choices, as our Supreme Commander has been leading us all to embrace.” He stepped back and shoved his hands into his pockets. “And I underestimated you. What you did today… thank you.”

Captain Johnson replaced his cap. “I’ll call off the surveillance. I had to know. But I hope you understand that Ruth and I have some things to work through. I have to know what my brother’s end goal was. But I won’t judge you — his daughter— for his actions. Is that fair?”

Harriet’s nostrils flared, and she crossed her arms over her chest. How was it fair he’d killed her eight-year-old cousin, but now wouldn’t judge Harriet? Had the captain softened that much? Or perhaps he’d known condemning Alma May — a child! — to execution by firing squad had been wrong? It was all too little, too late.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Harriet. “And I still hold you responsible for Alma May’s death.”

Her uncle exhaled, his shoulders falling. “That’s all I can ask for now. I can’t break the box of oppression, as you say. But perhaps our new city council will tackle that job.”

The two men said goodbye and carried on with their conversation about casualties and damage. Harriet watched them walk toward Obsidian, her mind spinning with what had just happened.

55

Aweek after the fight at the CAB, Rose walked along the celebration buffet line set out in the training room at HQ, marveling at the variety of foods. She wanted to try them all but knew her limits. So, instead, she decided she’d poach off her friends’ plates and take only small portions of foods she’d never tried.

Next to her, Roberto had no such restraint.

“What?” he asked as he ladled up a full serving of a worm-squiggly-looking dish which Harriet called macaroni and cheese. “I like this.”

“Leave some for the others,” she said.

He gestured to the three additional pans stacked behind the one he dished out of. “There’s plenty.”

“Mom absolutely made enough,” said Harriet from his other side. “And besides, I think she anticipated your appetite.”

“And mine,” echoed Marcos from down the line where his plate contained layers of food stacked high.

“Mine, too,” said Jason. Sam helped him with his plate, the two loading up almost as much as Marcos and Roberto.

“Alright, alright,” she said. “I give up.”

The others chuckled.

Her friends found a table together with Flavia and Amy. Everyone watched Rose as she sampled the macaroni and cheese off Marcos’s plate next to her.

“Nope,” she said. “How can you eat something so heavy? That’s the only way I can describe it.”

“It’s the cheese,” said Marcos. “You’re just not used to it. Keep eating that, or our queso and chips and you’ll eventually like it.”

She frowned. “I doubt that. Now, this is good.” She pointed her fork toward the tamales. Flavia and Marcos high-fived each other.

“That’s what I’m talking about! Maybe you’re Havana after all.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Nope again. But I liked it. And the spaghetti. Though bread…? Eh. It’s okay.”

Harriet laughed, wiping tears from her face. “I love this, Rose. Watching you try everyone's food is the highlight of my day. And I’ll be keeping all the Ivory bread for myself. I wish we got wheat and yeast. I’d honestly love to learn how to make it. Beats cornbread any day.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Sam, lifting a piece of cornbread. “This is amazing. Melts in my mouth.”

“I think it’s cool how we all like each other’s food,” said Jason, his mouth so stuffed that it sounded more like “uh fin uhs ool ee aah ie ee uhers oo.”

Everyone chuckled at him.

He swallowed and chased his bite with a drink of water. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t be bothered to stop eating before I said my piece.”

When they’d all cleaned their plates, some multiple times after heading back to the buffet for more, Rose patted her over-full belly and leaned back in her chair against Jason’s uninjured arm. He’d stretched it behind her, saying his belly was too full for his arm to be anywhere near it, making her laugh.

“Flavia, what year in school are you?” Amy asked. She sat across the table from Rose, sandwiched between Sam and Flavia.

“I’m in tenth,” Flavia said. “And you?”

“Just graduated and heading to teaching,” said Amy. “And get this, we got a notice that we’ll be training with the teaching students from all four areas. Can you believe that?”

Rose’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. No, she couldn’t believe that. “Wow, Mayor Kim and the new city council worked fast.”

“That’s a good thing,” said Flavia.

“But what about Martin?” At the head of the table, Harriet rested her chin in her palm, her fingers tapping a fast rhythm onto her cheek. “Isn’t that against his protocol? Will that make him angry and come after us?”

The group looked at each other.

“Maybe,” said Sam. “But Peter Kim said it was more important to the city council to do the right thing, than to obey Martin. Plus, I think they’re banking on Martin and his people not hearing about the changes before they have a chance to make their case.”

Once Central was quiet after the attack on the CAB, the guards had returned, securing the facility across the street from the CAB, and once again refusing entry to the mayor and the city council. It seemed like everything was back to normal from the regime’s perspective. And with the elected — and approved by Martin — mayor back in power, maybe Queenstown would escape Martin’s notice.

“Nothing we can do about it if he does come after us,” Harriet said. “Let tomorrow’s worries take care of themselves.”

Rose frowned again.

That was the most positive thing Rose had heard her friend say in days, even if Harriet was only repeating something she’d heard or read somewhere. Harriet had returned to HQ with a morbid outlook, despite knowing that she would start medical school in the fall with the new class.

At every turn, Harriet either expressed her fears for the future or her certainty that it would be bad. Rose had refrained from confronting her, not wanting to drive her back into hiding in Obsidian. But Rose itched to find out why Harriet had turned so gloomy so fast. Today was not the day though, with everyone around. Something must’ve happened, and she’d get it out of Harriet, eventually.

Rose waved at Marcos. “Let’s see what our leaders are discussing. Looks interesting.”

He looked up from his empty plate at the table next to theirs.

Jason stood. “I’ll take our plates to the kitchen. Harriet, want to help seeing as I’m one-handed?”

“Hey, that’s a good idea,” Harriet added, jumping up. “Flavia, Sam, Amy, let’s do everyone’s dishes. Many hands make light work.”

Amy headed over to the table where a few of the refugees from QT3 ate, including Michael, Darcy, and Caroline, whose broad smile relieved Rose. The younger girl had survived horrors no one — especially a child — should go through. It was good to see her smile.

The rest of the dishwashing brigade made their way around the room, collecting empty plates and silverware as Marcos and Rose approached the leaders’ table. Rose squeezed between Sophie and Tío, who wrapped an arm around her. Marcos stood near Moses at the head of the table.

“How was lunch?” Sophie asked.

“Intriguing,” Rose said.

Marcos snorted, and Rose threw him a look that said, “Don’t you dare, amigo.”

Tío boomed out a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re not a fan of red sauce.”

“No, I liked that. The macaroni and cheese was a little heavy for me. No offense, Miss Ruth. I’m not used to such rich food.”

“Oh, that’s ok. No offense taken. More for us,” Ruth said.

Rose was supposed to be collecting plates, but a truth weighed heavy in her heart. “Do you actually think they’ve moved on without me?” Rose asked, referring to the physicist training program.

The leaders exchanged glances.

“Yes, I do,” Andrew said.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” Tío said. “It’s not like you’ve been back to your condo in Little Asia, which I don’t recommend, by the way.”

“It’s for the better. Another opportunity will come along,” her mother said, and Rose nodded her agreement. Her mom had been right, but Rose had been far too stubborn to see that. Still, she missed the intellectual challenge and camaraderie of her old program.

“Dr. Weber left the city a few days ago,” Andrew Stewart said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I think that means everyone is assembling in Martinsburg for the next phase in the program.”

Rose clenched her jaw and stood. “The onsite portion. Which means whatever facility they were constructing is finished.”

“What’s going to happen here now that we’ve all fought next to each other?” Marcos asked, leaning a hip against the table.

The others glanced at each other, but it was Andrew who finally answered. “We’re working on some interim solutions. Perhaps integrating the freed prisoners from QT3 back into their areas, if they lived inside the city at some point. The others? There’s debate.”

“There’s also debate about opening the gates between areas on Saturdays to allow greater competition and traffic to the various market days,” said Ruth. “I, for one, would love that.”

“It’d be a dream come true,” said Abuela as she squeezed Moses’s hand on the table.

“Wow, that would be amazing,” said Rose.

But a thought lingered in the back of her mind — how would Martin respond to such a flagrant violation of his laws and civil order? Surely the city council had considered that in their many conversations. Or maybe were they spinning the truth to make it digestible to Martin? Either way, at some point, the Martin regime would knock on Queenstown’s door, demanding things go back to the old way. By choice or by force.

“Anyway, let me take those,” Marcos said, stacking the empty plates on his side of the table and cradling the stack against his chest. The bullet graze on his arm was now healed, allowing Marcos to ditch his sling.

“We’re doing the dishes,” Rose said, collecting the others’ plates. “It’s the least we can do since others cooked.”

The leaders had left very little food uneaten. Rose figured every area was the same in that regard. No one had extras, and everyone learned not to waste food.

Rose preceded Marcos to the kitchen, freezing at the doorway.

“Fresh meat!” Jason yelled as he slapped a fistful of bubbles onto her head.

Marcos crowed, and Harriet took his stack of plates and set them down inside the sink. Marcos followed Harriet and grabbed a handful of bubbles from the sink while Rose stood frozen, taking in the mayhem.

Sam swooped in and relieved Rose of her stack of plates. When Marcos targeted Harriet with a handful of bubbles, Rose dove toward the sink filled with soapy water.

“Rose! Help!” Harriet yelled.

Rose pinned Jason to the wall, their bodies nearly flush against each other as she drenched him with a handful of soapy water.

“Flavia, get him again while I hold him!” She pressed her hands into Jason's shoulders, pinning him in place.

“Marcos, stop your sister! No fair double-teaming!”

Flavia poured her cupped hands, full of bubbles, over Jason’s head.

Harriet dumped a pitcher of water onto Marcos, and he grabbed her up.

“Oh-ho, you’re going to regret that,” Marcos said as he walked Harriet to the sink.

“No! Not the sink! Marcos, put me down! Rose, help me!”

Jason flipped their positions, encasing Rose in a one-armed body lock. She wriggled to free herself without hurting his broken arm, which was now in a cast. She wrapped her leg around his body and shoved him to her side, pinning him into place against the wall with her body.

Flavia blocked Marcos with her leg, and he set Harriet back on her feet. Flavia then tossed a handful of soapy water at Sam, who ducked. The water splattered across Harriet, instead.

Marcos ducked around both Flavia and Harriet to grab a handful of bubbles, smearing them on Harriet’s cheek.

“He’s going to get it for that,” Rose said, holding Jason back from the bubble fight with a straight arm to his solid chest. She tried not to notice just how solid he felt. Or why he wasn't breaking free of her hold, which he obviously could with ease.

“What’s going on in here!?” Ruth rounded the corner, hands on hips, her lips twitching.

“Sorry, Mom,” Harriet said, ducking her head.

Ruth clapped her hands. “Well, the floor needs cleanin’ anyway. Boys, get mopping while you girls finish up these dishes. And be careful on this wet tile, for cryin’ out loud. Dancing begins in the training room in ten. Don’t be late.” She grinned broadly at them, winking at the girls as she disappeared.

A chorus of ‘yes, ma’am’s’ and ‘Right away, Miss Ruth’s’ sounded as they got busy, erupting in fits of laughter as they rehashed the bubble fight while they cleaned up.

“What did we miss?” Amy said as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, trailed by Grace, Chul, Roberto, and Xavier.

“It looks like we missed all the fun,” said Xavier, as he handed a stack of dishes to Harriet.

“Wow, I like this kind of fun,” said Grace.

“It’s a mess in here, though,” said Chul, his hands on his hips as he watched the guys mop the floor. “Good thing you’re cleaning up after yourselves.”

“Oh, Grandpa, relax,” said Rose. “We had fun and now we’re cleaning up.”

“Well, the rest of us will be out in the training room,” said Grace. “The band was warming up when we left.”

“The band?” said Flavia, her hands shoved deep into the sudsy sink water.

“The band,” said Grace. “You’ve never heard anything like what you’re about to hear.”

“That’s so cool,” said Flavia. She handed a clean plate to Harriet, who rinsed it and passed it to Rose to dry.

Amy and Grace walked out, discussing music.

Ten minutes later, Rose dried her hands on her jeans and nudged Marcos’s hip. “That’s better.”

“Rose, have you ever done the salsa?”

“The salsa? What in Martin’s macrocosm is that?”

Marcos clapped his hands and danced in a circle. “I’ll teach you!”

“I should be afraid.”

“Nah, mi hermano is a terrific dancer. And you move well already,” Flavia linked arms with her, and they walked into the training room together. “Don’t let him embarrass you, though. Sometimes his salsa moves are, well, extra.”

Ahead of her, Harriet looked wide-eyed back at Marcos as he laughed.

“Ok, the basics. Flavia,” Harriet said, “teach us the basics, first. Then we’ll try the big time with Mr. Show-off over there.”

Marcos and Jason shadowed Flavia, who dragged the girls to a corner of the training room, demonstrating the salsa movements. Quick, quick, slow. Or quick, quick, foot stomp. Back on the right foot, forward on the left. He mimed the moves for Jason while Flavia showed the girls.

“My hips don’t do that,” Rose said, pointing to the flowing motion of Flavia’s hips. “That’s not normal.”

Flavia laughed brightly. “It’s what happens when you bend and straighten your knees, that’s all. See?” She slowed her steps down and kept the extra hip gyrating to a minimum.

“I still don’t think my hips do that.”

“Mine, either,” Harriet echoed.

They all moved to the dance floor in one group, Marcos leading them through the basics in pairs. He spun Rose out, and she ran into Jason, who steadied her.

“He is wild,” said Jason.

Rose chuckled. “I got quite the intro to salsa, that’s for sure.”

The song ended, and the band switched to a rock song.

“I’m out of my league on this one,” Marcos said as Jason grabbed Rose’s hand with his uninjured one.

“Is this an Ivory song?” she asked.

“Sure is,” Jason said.

“What’s this called?” Harriet yelled.

“This is called social swing,” Jason said, including Marcos in the conversation. “It’s a quick, quick, slow just like salsa, but with different movements and timing. Just do what I do like you’re my mirror. It’s easy, I promise.”

Jason’s lead was confident, as if he’d danced this a million times. Rose had no clue what she was doing, but followed his lead anyway. When she tripped over her own feet a few times, she laughed.

“You’re doing great,” he said in a low voice. “It must be all that martial arts and yoga you all do, but your movement is so natural. Like you were born to dance.”

Rose laugh-snorted. “If you’d seen me in phys ed, you’d say differently. There’s a reason I buried my nose in textbooks and joined strings.”

The music switched again to an Obsidian rap and someone played with the lights, flickering them to the beat until Tío yelled to cut it out. The couples all separated, following Harriet’s direction to “circle up.”

Rose laughed, clapping as Harriet showed them all how to “roll” and “bump.” Again, Rose felt awkward in the movement, but she mimicked Harriet as well as she could.

The music switched to a far slower piece featuring the violin and an upright bass.

“How do we dance to this?” Marcos asked.

“We don’t,” Rose said, gesturing to Grace and Simon, Peter Kim’s son, who stood in the middle of the dance floor.

“That’s how we dance to this,” she said, gesturing to the pair. “It’s called ballet. Most people just watch the pros do it.”

Grace flowed through the ballet forms, moving with Simon like they’d performed together dozens of times over their lives. And they had. Near the end of the piece, Simon lifted Grace above his head and spun.

Oohs and ahs filled the air as Simon set Grace down, her leg extended behind her at hip level. As the song ended, the two bowed to the applause.

“That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” Harriet said, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Can you do that?” Jason asked Rose.

“Not even close,” said Rose, snorting with laughter.

Rose lifted her hands, then dropped them to her sides. “Let’s have more fun while we’re all together.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jason crowed.

At the sound of another salsa, Marcos spun Harriet onto the dance floor, Jason taking Rose’s hand and leading her out.

Let tomorrow’s worries take care of themselves. If Harriet could do it, so could Rose. At least for today.

THE END

Continue the journey in Betrayed, Book 3 in the Divided series.

Upheaval: A Post-Apocalyptic Prequel to the Divided series

An impossible choice - survive to live in bondage or die.

Available at most major retailers

or to new subscribers to CC's monthly e-newsletter, the Underground

https://ccrobinsonauthor.com

Divided: Book One in the Divided (Young Adult Dystopian) Series

Divided available at most major retailers

links via CC Robinson's website

https://ccrobinsonauthor.com

Deception, a Divided novella, Book 1.5 in the Divided series

Can Sophie save the Underground and escape with her life?

Or will her secrets be buried in the Appalachian mountains forever?

Deception available on Amazon

or to new review team members

links via CC Robinson's website here

https://ccrobinsonauthor.com

Acknowledgements

An author may spend a lot of time alone — writing, editing, smoothing over words, and tearing their hair out over plot holes — but a book cannot be born into the world without the help of others. I couldn't have gotten Caged published without a few people. Thank you to my editors KM and AB and to Anna for the gorgeous maps. To my marketing and PR genius squad Aimee Ravichandran and Mickey Mikkelson. To my social media expert and virtual assistant Raewyn. To my mentor Alexa Bigwarfe and her dynamic writing community, Women in Publishing Summit. To my local writing community and my virtual dystopian gang, thanks for the encouragement, help with blurbs and covers, and all the shout-outs on socials. Writing and publishing is a fun endeavor when you have friends on the journey with you.

Thank you to God for the dream inspiration for the Divided series. I can hardly believe the story has come this far and I pinch myself daily that I get to do this. But most of all, I couldn't have gotten Caged done without my husband's help. Steve stepped in when writing and my day job became a little much in the face of chronic illness. He allowed me to focus my remaining energy on what was important and took care of little things, like feeding and watering me. Thanks also to my excellent proofreader and oldest daughter, Ruth. Without her eyes on this book, I wouldn't have wanted to release it. And thanks to my magnificent Underground Advance Reader team for finding the errors four editors and readers missed.

And thanks to you, dear reader, for taking a chance on a new indie author. You can make my day by leaving your honest review on the platform of your choice. Reviews are how other readers find their next favorite book and they make me want to shout and jump and turn cartwheels.

About CC Robinson

CC Robinson has over two decades’ experience in cross-cultural settings as a medical doctor working in post-civil war nations and as an Associate Pastor at a multi-ethnic congregation led by an African-American man in Cincinnati, the setting for the Divided series.

When not donning her superhero cape to save her characters from their own mischief, CC enjoys gardening, hiking, off-roading in her Jeep, and ballroom dancing. She is married to her lifelong best friend, Steve, and they have three grown Gen Z kids, a dog Sadie, and Newt the Cat, who rules the house. She’d love to hear from readers on her socials @ccrobinsonauthor or on her website, https://ccrobinsonauthor.com.