The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (26 page)

Fresh panic sank in when I realized it was time to perform. In my head, I tried to picture the map of the city again — where the prison was located, and which routes we were supposed to take. I could recall Rulon’s directions, but the map seemed fuzzy when I tried to remember the details.

As it turned out, I didn’t have time to review our plan. The truck came to a halt, and Rulon killed the engine. The cab window slid open.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Rulon slid the gate up, and we all emerged into the muted sunshine of early morning. I instantly felt disoriented standing in broad daylight out in PMC territory, strapped down with all kinds of illegal weaponry.
 

I wanted to run. That’s what we did, Greyson and me.

The skyline gleamed with empty buildings. It was startling to think how all that steel and glass and brownstone held nothing; the beautiful skyscrapers once buzzing with life were now little more than enormous sculptures. Some were converted to prisons to hold the huge influx of criminals apprehended after the passage of the mandatory identification and migration bills. Those buildings were emblazoned with steel Xs that gleamed in the sunlight. A single “X” signified low-level criminals, like those who resisted identification. “XX” was reserved for the supermax prison that held the illegals who were considered the most dangerous threats to national security, including defectors, rebels, and Internet activists who posted anything anti-PMC.
 

After the evacuation, some blocks had been remodeled for training and housing PMC officers. The buildings that the PMC had not converted looked derelict and frightening. Apartment buildings with flickering lights and broken windows leered down like faces with so many broken teeth. Shops and restaurants sat dark and vacant with spray-painted windows and signs that read “Sorry, we’re closed” fluttering in the breeze.
 

Streets once teeming with cars and millions of people on foot going about their daily lives were wide open and deserted. Old newspapers and fast-food containers blew down the streets like tumbleweed. The dusting of fresh snow looked completely untouched except for the occasional pigeon tracks.
 

Rulon and Mariah started off down the street, and we followed at a brisk jog, hugging the sides of buildings and looking around corners. I was intensely aware of Amory at my elbow. Sneaking a sideways glance to gauge his plan, I saw him staring straight ahead with lethal focus. He was a soldier in his own right, and this was what he had trained for.

As we neared the heart of Sector X, I noticed that the buildings looked grander. The structures they had rebuilt had marble steps, gleaming glass windows, and tall granite walls rising up through the sidewalk.
 

Finally, I looked up and saw a street I recognized. This was the target.
 

Large enough to consume an entire city block, the building’s gleaming walls looked as impenetrable as those of a medieval fortress. The narrow windows and doors were carved into the stone and made of dark, bulletproof glass. We couldn’t see in, but I was grateful that the sparse windows provided limited visibility from the interior.

Reaching the street corner, I slowed my pace. Rulon’s map had each of us positioned at a corner when the rebels infiltrated the building. Glancing over his shoulder at me, Amory shook his head once and pulled me along.

Mariah thrust out an arm and caught Logan in the chest. Logan let out a grunt and looked murderous but kept quiet. Mariah signaled that this was Logan’s lookout point.

Shooting her a fleeting look, I tried to communicate in a brief second how grateful I was to know her. I didn’t have time to worry that this could be my last second with her. The others were already several yards ahead, and I had to quicken my pace to catch up.

I stuck close to Amory as we fanned out around the block. Roman dropped off from our group, then Max. With one corner lookout post left, I felt a leap of hope that Amory and I would be stationed together. Whatever the rebels had planned, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight.

I paused at the last corner of the base, and Amory stopped, too. Mariah shook her head and motioned for Amory to follow them.

“I thought we were supposed to secure the perimeter,” he said in a low voice, inching in closer behind me. I could detect the undercurrent of distress in his tone, but he was prepared to hold his ground.

“Not you,” said Rulon. “You’re coming in with us.”

Amory stood motionless. “This isn’t what I signed up for,” he said, so low it was almost a growl.

Rulon’s eyes darkened. “If you jeopardize our mission, I’ll have to get rid of you myself.” His hand jerked to his belt, and his fingertips brushed the gun in its holster.

Amory’s hand was on his gun, too, but I knew he wouldn’t use it unless there was no other option.

I shot him a bewildered look. What was the plan? He couldn’t go in there with them. I had the horrible feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach that they wouldn’t make it. One less rebel I could live with; the loss of Amory I could not.
 

Amory met my gaze for a moment, and then a dark cloud of resolve and dread overtook the usual clarity of those eyes. He squeezed my arm once and turned away, following the rebels around the building and leaving me all alone.

I felt extremely exposed standing undefended in broad daylight in a city full of our enemies. I looked around. The street was deserted.
 

Since Amory had gone with the rebels, I saw no option but to carry out my assignment. I self-consciously checked my gun. It wasn’t the shotgun I’d practiced with on the farm; it looked powerful and extremely compact. I knew it was already loaded, and I had a spare magazine in my holster.

I couldn’t see anywhere to hide that would provide a good vantage point as a lookout. The only car parked on my side of the street was an unoccupied armored truck — the vehicle of the building’s security patrol, I suspected.
 

Where was the security guard?
I wondered. Perhaps the rebels had already thought that through.
 

The truck was the only option for concealment, so I got down on the ground and shimmied underneath. It was difficult to maneuver my weapons lying there on my stomach, but I cocked my gun toward the street. It didn’t feel much safer. I was more of a sitting duck this way, but at least no one would get the jump on me.

I don’t know how long I lay there. My forearm quickly went numb from holding myself up in a shooting position, and my palms ached from scraping across the rough asphalt.
 

How long did it take to launch a rebel attack? Nothing appeared to have happened within the building. No alarms were sounding, but I half expected to see a blazing fire in the window of a file room or hear the pop of an exploding database.

Where was everyone?
Not just the rebels — the soldiers. The streets were empty, which struck me as odd for eight o’clock on a weekday.
 

What if the rebels had been captured?

Amory.
I didn’t think I would be able to cope if I lost him, too. Surely he was quick enough, fierce enough, to avoid capture. I envisioned him sprinting out toward me through a torrent of bullets, dodging every one and pulling me out from under the truck.
 

Imagining an impossible escape scenario was better than the alternative.

And then someone
was
sprinting toward me — a tall figure I couldn’t quite make out. So lost in my reverie, I’d seen him approaching from the east end of the building out of the corner of my eye without fully processing what was happening.

I fumbled to reposition my gun, trying to control my breathing the way Amory had taught me. My gut twisted, and I was sure I would vomit. I’d never shot a person before.

But as the figure drew closer, I recognized something in that light, easy stride. It was the graceful canter of a natural-born runner. Surely it wasn’t the hostile gait of a PMC officer weighed down by his helmet and flak jacket.

Even with two rifles slung over his back, I’d recognize the handsome line of those broad shoulders anywhere. It was Amory.

Amory tensed as I pulled myself out from under the truck, tightening his grip on his gun. When he recognized me, his shoulders relaxed visibly. He looked serious.

“We need to go,” he said. “Now.”
 

“What happened?”

He clasped my hand and began pulling me back the way we came, glancing toward the back entrance of the building. “We need to find the others, rescue Greyson, and get the hell out of here.”

“What? Why?”
 

His eyes flickered, but he did not answer.

“Where are the rebels?”

“I left them,” he said. “We shouldn’t have come here. We shouldn’t have let this happen.”

I stepped back, yanking my arm out of his grasp. “Stop. Tell me what’s going on.”

A look of intense distress crossed his face. “I thought . . . I thought we were just taking out a CID database or something — shutting them down.”
 

The look in his eye was almost pleading now, and my feelings of dread mounted.

“What is it?”

He swallowed, his face screwed up in a grimace. “Haven. That building is full of people.”

“What?”

“It’s some big classified meeting.” He looked away, raking a hand through his hair. “They’ve been planning this for a while. I don’t know where they’re getting their information, but the place is full of PMC officials.”

“How many?”

Amory shook his head. “I don’t know. A lot of them.”

My heart stopped. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“They’re blowing the place up.” He looked helpless. “There was nothing I could do. I-I don’t know where they placed the detonator.”
 

My mind flashed through any scenario that might keep the rebels from killing a building full of people. If we caused a scene, we might be able to alert a few, but we would be shot before we could spread the word. They would probably think it was a setup anyway. Why would illegals break in to warn the PMC of something they were involved in?

“The fire alarm,” I choked, stopping short. “If we pull the fire alarm —”

Amory jerked his head. “There’s no time.”

My heart sank, and I felt my blood go cold. Every second we wasted increased the likelihood of disaster. The rebels could emerge and shoot Amory for abandoning them. The bomb could explode with the others still standing guard outside the building. The building could explode with Amory still inside.

This time, it was me pulling
him
along. I’d already lost my parents and Greyson to the PMC. I couldn’t lose anyone else.

We reached Max first. He’d known Amory long enough not to ask what was going on; he knew something was horribly wrong.
 

“Listen,” Amory said, clinging to Max’s sleeve. “Find the others and
get out.
Don’t wait for the rebels. Get across the river, and keep going until you reach where we camped. Don’t stop until you get there.”

“What about you?” Max asked.

“We’ll meet up with you as soon as we can.”

“But —”

“Max!” Amory yelled. “Go! It’s now or never. This place is going down.”

Max shot us both one last look, and I recognized it as the same look I’d given Logan earlier. He thought he might not see us again.
 

I didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. We ran away from the building as fast as we could, no longer caring if anyone saw us. My feet felt slow and clumsy as though I were in a dream. We weren’t moving fast enough.
 

A moment later, a deafening explosion shook the block. I felt it rumble in the ground beneath my feet and then reverberate up my body, jarring my organs.
 

Sounds of screams and the groan of steel filled the air. Feeling the surge of heat, Amory froze on the sidewalk, looking up at the immense building with the smoke furling toward the sky. I fumbled for his arm, and he was pliant enough to follow.

My thoughts felt jumbled as we half ran, half tripped down the street. Ears ringing, I shook my head — as if trying to clear the smoke and screams from my brain. We turned down the wrong street and had to double back. My heart pounded. Every second we wasted was less time to save Greyson.

As we ran, I didn’t feel fatigue. I didn’t feel anything, but it wasn’t the measured endurance of a race or a long run. It was a numbness to the world and a blind focus toward finding the prison and freeing Greyson. I couldn’t think of our escape; just putting one foot in front of the other and running to the prison required every ounce of my energy.
 

What happened to the others? Did they get away in time? Were the rebels after us? And worst of all, was there anything we could have done to stop the explosion?

I told myself it had happened too quickly. Even if we had managed to get back in, we probably would have blown up inside. There was no time to warn everyone, no time to evacuate. Despite the logic, I could not shake the horrible, dragging guilt that we had stood silent while dozens or hundreds of people died.

There was no street sign indicating we had arrived. We didn’t need one. A hastily erected fence topped with curling tendrils of barbed wire towered over what had once been a courtyard. The prison yard was eerily quiet.

Amory squeezed my arm, pointing up to the watchman’s tower. It appeared to be vacant. Something was wrong.

“Here,” said Amory, handing me a pair of thick leather gloves from his pocket. “You go first and then throw them back over.”

I slipped the too-big gloves over my hands and toed my feet into the holes of the chain-link fence. It was slowgoing, and even as I reached the top — precariously balanced by holding on to the last row of chain link — I had no idea how I would get myself up and over the barbed wire.

Gingerly, I grasped the smooth section of wire and pushed down, bending it against the top of the fence. I winced as a barb cut into my wrist, but Ida’s excellent shirt afforded some protection. I swung one leg over and struggled to find a new foothold and steady myself. I was twisted awkwardly over the fence, and it was impossible to get a solid grip with my foot.