Authors: Catherine Linka
“
WANTED BY THE FBI
. Suspects in the Salvation Shootout. Aveline Reveare and Luke Stanton.”
There was a black silhouette of a man’s head under Luke’s name, but there were two photos below mine. The blurry, bleached-out one must have come from the video broadcast, while the profile of me with my long, brown hair held back by a Hawkins-approved headband was from the
People
shoot.
The marshal’s eyes met mine then traveled to my hair.
I’m not her. I’m not her.
“Could you please step outside, miss?”
My heart stopped. “Sure, Officer.”
I picked up Nestor and cradled him in my arms. The marshal followed me out of the RV, our shoes hammering the metal stairs. The door closed, barely muffling the dogs frenzied barking. Outside, four officers made a wall between me and the road.
This is it. This is the end.
“Could I please see your ID?” he said.
Shit. I had no ID. Nothing but a fake Canadian passport zipped into my jacket.
“Miss, your ID?” He looked from me to the wanted poster, and I saw myself handcuffed and shackled in the back of a squad car. Unless they shot me right here. Nestor yelped and clawed at my arm, and I realized I was crushing him. I had to say something.
Don’t just stand there. Say something!
“I think it’s inside somewhere—in my coat or backpack or something.”
“I need you to retrieve it.”
My throat closed until I could hardly breathe. “Yeah. Right now? I mean, it’s kind of crowded in there.”
“Yes, now.”
I glanced back at Luke, but he was splayed out on his stomach, reaching under a car with Officer Barton crouched beside him. If I didn’t play this right, he and Selena would be on their way to prison.
The men near me snapped to attention, and I saw a tall officer approach. “What the hell’s going on in there?” He wrenched open the RV door, and the men inside stopped what they were doing. He looked at ATF and FBI. “Anything?”
“Three handguns,” ATF answered. “All locked and legally registered. No sign of explosives.”
“You done here?”
“Yessir.”
“Go check out the freezer truck five vehicles down.”
The officer looked from me to the flyer the marshal was holding. “That’s not her.”
I got very still. The marshal didn’t answer, but the way his mouth hardened told me he didn’t like the other officer telling him what to do.
The tall officer walked away and the marshal’s eyes followed him. He folded the flyer and put it back in his pocket. “I won’t need your identification.”
Okay. Okay. I’m okay, I thought, as he walked off. I thanked Selena silently for making me blond and for the bright pink lipstick she had insisted I wear.
Luke was still trying to retrieve the dogs. Three FBI agents stood between us, sizing up the cars and trucks they hadn’t yet searched. Scratchy chatter on their two-way radios mentioned roadblocks across five states.
I nuzzled Nestor, and kept my head low, wondering if any of these agents had been instructed to look for a piece of embroidered silk like the one wound around my neck.
It was freezing even with Nestor in my arms. The cold blew through my tights, but I wasn’t going back inside the RV without Luke. Finally, he and Officer Barton headed back with both dogs. Barton faced forward. No easy conversation with Luke.
When they reached us, the FBI turned to check out Luke. They glanced at his face and then at each other. One looked away, uncomfortable, while the other raised his eyebrows and faked a cough.
It’s the eyeliner, I realized.
Then the sheriff stepped out of the RV, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. “You’re free to go.” He handed me a flyer. “The people we’re looking for are armed and dangerous. If you run into them, give us a call. The number’s here.”
I don’t know how I managed to say thank you, seeing not one, but two direct lines to my capture. Both 1-800-CALL-FBI and 1-800-AVE-LINE. Somehow I climbed back in the RV, where Selena, Luke, and I stripped the sweaters off the dogs. We moved around each other, barely talking, as we stowed the dogs in their crates.
Selena slid behind the wheel. She shifted into gear and drove forward between the squad cars and the black SUVs painted with U.S. Marshal and FBI emblems.
The RV lumbered along until the freeway was wide open, then the engine rumbled and picked up speed. Selena drove until the roadblock was out of sight, and then without warning, pulled over. Then she bent over the wheel, and started to sob.
I got up and draped my arm across her shoulder. “Selena, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry we got you into this.”
She shook her head, still crying, and wouldn’t look at me.
“Selena, this was wrong. I never should have asked you for help.”
Luke handed Selena a glass of water. She gulped it down, then her shoulders dropped and she stared into the empty glass, shaking her head. “I forget what it’s like to be afraid of police. Today I remember.”
I felt sick to my stomach, hearing that.
I’d asked her to risk her life for me. For me! What makes me think I’m so special, I deserve to ruin other people’s lives?
Selena pulled herself together and started up the engine. I got up and went back to my seat.
Selena fiddled with the radio, and then as the RV filled with the sounds of trumpets and a man belting out a song in Spanish, she pulled back onto the road. She bobbed her head to the beat, and began to sing along, quietly at first, but soon stronger and then almost defiant as we hit cruising speed.
I fingered the embroidered silk at my neck. I probably didn’t deserve Selena protecting me or Vera or Harris risking prison to hide me—but the evidence Luke and I carried did.
Suddenly, I realized why Maggie had walked out of the church into what she knew would be a firing squad. She didn’t believe her life mattered. What was important was Yates and I continuing the fight.
Her cause mattered and I knew it. Exposing the Paternalists could change millions of lives, but I wondered if I had anywhere near the strength or conviction Maggie did, because it would take all that for Luke and me to succeed.
Luke sat down beside me “You okay?”
His legs brushed mine, and I knew if I leaned against him, he’d hold me up like a pillar.
Careful, I told myself, it could just confuse things, and I moved my leg slightly so our legs didn’t touch. “I’m trying, but what if I can’t do this?”
“Yeah, well, you got to. You got no other choice.” The way Luke looked at me, I saw a glint of Maggie in his eyes where before I’d only seen Barnabas. And I wondered if Luke had another side that I was only now beginning to see.
Selena drove the RV down a country road while Luke watched for landmarks. The houses were far apart, and the land rolled out like a churning, white sea broken by green-gray shrub and dried grass. Barbed-wire fences edged the road. Snow-covered peaks loomed far off in the distance.
Finally, Luke pointed Selena toward a tidy tan house set back from the road. It was boring looking, a house someone would pass by without thinking about it twice.
The RV lumbered up the long, gravel drive, and Selena slowed to a crawl. Behind the house stood a big, beige metal building with a door large enough to drive a truck through. A tall chain-link fence with razor wire surrounded the building and its gravel parking lot, cutting it off from the house.
We drew closer, and my skin began to itch. The house looked perfectly innocent, no peeling paint or broken windows, and the porch was clean and bare. It would have fit in a suburb anywhere if it had had a lawn out front instead of the stubbly, wild grass that was mowed short.
We were within seventy-five feet of the house when the front door opened, and two Rottweilers barreled out. They hurtled toward the RV, barking and baring their teeth. Selena braked.
“Ayee.”
I crouched behind her seat. “You can say that again.”
She put the engine in park, but left it running.
Luke peered out the windshield. “Streicker’ll come out. We need to give him a minute.”
I saw Luke slip his gun into the back of his jeans under his jacket. “Luke,” I said quietly, “what are you doing?”
He turned, and saw that I’d caught him. “I’m not doing anything,” he said, showing me his empty hand.
You just lied to me. You don’t trust this guy at all.
The Rottweilers leaped against the door of the RV, and the
perritos
yowled and whined in their crates. Selena threw the RV into reverse. “Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” Luke said.
She put the RV in park, and brushed past us to get to the crying dogs in back. I heard her coo in Spanish, trying to calm them.
A tall man with a shaved head stepped onto the porch. He stood, motorcycle jacket open, hands on his hips, looking us over.
The muscles along my spine pulled tight as I spied the big, black tattoo on his neck. “Is that Streicker?”
“I’m guessing it is,” Luke said. He squinted, sizing him up, but I’d already sized Streicker up, and I did not believe Barnabas told Luke to find him.
“I’m going out,” Luke said.
“Wait. Are you sure about this guy?”
“Yes,” Luke shot back. He opened the door, but left the screen closed between him and the snarling dogs. As if that flimsy thing could stop a hundred pounds of attack dog. “Hey, I’m here to see Streicker.”
“Yeah, what do you want with him?”
“He knew my father—Barnabas.”
Streicker stood for a long minute, letting his dogs’ aggressive barking speak for him. I was about to tell Luke to give it up when Streicker shouted, “Glock, Luger, heel!”
The Rottweilers wheeled and raced back to Streicker. At his signal, they dropped, and he walked past them.
Luke stepped out of the RV. Selena and I watched through the screen, riveted, as Luke approached the house, completely exposed and too far from safety if Streicker set the dogs on him.
What the hell are we doing here, Luke?
Streicker stepped down from the porch and met Luke partway. Wind whipped Luke’s jacket as they talked. Even from far away, I could see Streicker becoming angry.
We need to get out of here.
I wrenched open the screen to call Luke back when Streicker grabbed him. He pulled Luke into a bear hug, and pounded him on the back.
What the hell?
Luke pointed to the RV, and Streicker broke into a grin. They walked toward us, and Selena shoved the dog she was holding at me. She reached for the gun safe and tapped in the combination, took out her gun, and set it on the counter.
Luke climbed in first and shot me a look that said “don’t worry.” Behind him, Streicker filled the doorway. “This here’s Mr. Streicker,” Luke said.
Streicker eyed Selena’s gun and tossed her a smile.
“Hola.”
“Hola,”
she muttered.
The tattoo on Streicker’s neck was a dense pattern made up of words, and the few I could pick out made my skin crawl. Words like “Righteous Man” and “Tyranny.”
Streicker looked me up and down, his eyes cutting through my clothes like the tip of a knife.
I hugged the dog to my chest and felt her tiny little chicken heart go crazy. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Streicker nodded at the dog crates lashed together and laughed. “Shit, Luke. When you said you had a bunch of Chihuahuas in here, I thought you were joking.”
“So, can you get them over the border?” Luke said.
Streicker reached for the dog in my arms. I forced myself not to pull away as he stroked the silky ears. “Over the border. Under the border. Easy as one-two-three.”
Selena shook her head. “No, is okay. I take them to Denver.”
“You sure?” Luke said.
“I’m sure,” she answered.
Streicker shrugged. “Suit yourself. Grab your stuff,” he told Luke, “and come on up to the house.”
Streicker left, and Luke gathered our packs and guns.
“How about you, Selena?” Luke said. “You need a break? Want to walk the dogs before your brother gets here?”
“No,
gracias.
” Selena lifted the dog from my arms. Luke stepped outside, and Selena dropped her voice. “I’m not waiting for my brother, I’m leaving now. You should too.”
Every cell in my body was saying the same thing, but Luke wasn’t about to leave here, and I couldn’t leave him.
“I can’t.”
Selena shook her head sadly and set the pup down before she took my hands and kissed me on both cheeks, leaving smudges of red lipstick I could feel. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll never forget how you helped us.” Selena watched me climb down the steps and I saw her fingers making the sign of the cross.
I wiped her lipstick off my cheeks as the RV backed down the drive and onto the country road. Selena turned south toward Colorado, and I watched her drive off, already regretting that Luke and I hadn’t left, too.
I felt like an animal sniffing out danger when I stepped into Streicker’s house. The first thing that struck me was that it was eerily immaculate. New paint. No dust on the shiny floor. No dog smell despite the two curled in the corner.
The front room was stripped down to a brown leather couch, chair, table, and a Sportswall. All four screens were tuned to news. Financial. International. Domestic. Not what I expected from a man dressed like a member of a motorcycle gang.
Streicker slapped shut the open laptop on the coffee table. “Closet’s behind you.”
Luke and I stowed our coats and packs in the empty closet. My shoulders pinched and I began to wonder if the bare walls and absence of anything personal were intentional, as if Streicker wanted to be able to walk out the door and not leave a trace of who he was behind.
“Make yourself at home, Luke.”
I waited for my invite, but Streicker kept me standing. He stripped off his jacket, revealing his cut arm muscles and a stomach that was military flat under his gray tee.
The tattoo on his neck was now completely exposed, and I saw that these weren’t random words, but a long passage in the shape of a gun with a barrel, handle, and trigger. I made out a phrase before Streicker turned away.