“Honestly I don’t remember. I guess that’s probably better.” With effort that had nothing to do with physical pain, he twisted so that he could look into my face.
“I never should have let you guys leave without me,” he said.
Gently, I cleaned his back with a damp rag. The black film wiped away, making his injuries less monstrous. I couldn’t help but think about how Chase’s shoulders were wider, how he, too, had a scar, one I didn’t know the origin of, that looked like the swipe of a giant set of claws from the side of his ribs to his spine.
“I know why you did.” Tucker had information on Rebecca—at least that was what Sean thought. If I’d thought someone had information on Chase, I would have stayed, too.
Sean looked through the glass office window at my mother’s killer. “Can I trust him?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, apologizing when he winced.
Chase came up beside us. His gaze flickered to mine, just for a moment, but I concentrated on the task. “Hell of a burn,” he commented.
“Thanks,” Sean said tightly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Chase stood silently for some time, watching me work, and I chewed my lip, remembering how stupid I’d been to kiss him in the truck.
Finally he said, “We should change the plates on the truck first thing tomorrow.”
I smiled as he walked away.
“WHOA.” Billy’s voice came from within the office, just as I was helping Sean back into his shirt. “They hooked you up! I had to build a machine out of spare parts and cruiser panels to access the mainframe.”
As I approached, I saw the source of Billy’s fascination: a computer, scanning equipment, and a printer atop a wooden desk. A shoulder-high gun safe was in the back corner, beneath a flat window revealing the bright blue afternoon sky. I shied away from the open area instinctively.
“Only the best for the FBR,” said Marco. Several people chuckled. It took a few seconds to realize he wasn’t joking.
“Don’t freak out.” Cara smirked. “They’re still on the payroll.”
“Soldiers
“Article Nine, at your service,” said Polo, referencing the new Statute that would punish rebels to the full extent of the law.
“Turncoats,” grumbled Tucker. He snorted when every eye shot to him, and raised his hands in surrender. “Tough crowd. Not like any of us are any better.”
“Then why are you here?”
Sean laughed uncomfortably from the doorway. Obviously Tucker had told him nothing of why we hated each other.
“It was a joke,” he said. “A bad one.”
Was it just a joke? Directing Tucker to the largest safe house on the Eastern Seaboard felt like pulling the pin out of a grenade and throwing it into a playground. I felt a wave of responsibility that I should somehow stop him, but how could I, after he’d saved Sean and me in the fire?
Marco was eyeing me curiously. “You look familiar,” he said, taking a seat behind the desk.
“A lot of people say that.” I twisted the gold band around my ring finger.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Marco. “Hey, Polo, come look at this.” Needing to see exactly what they did, I skirted around the desk for a better look at the screen.
It was my picture from the reformatory that had been posted around the Square. My eyes were red and swollen from crying after the arrest, and my hair was a natural brown and long past my shoulders. I still had stretches in my school uniform from where Beth had tried to pull me away from the soldiers. I read the caption just below it, but it didn’t scare me as it had before. I guess the shock had worn off.
“I figured they’d already closed your case,” said Polo conversationally.
“Oh, don’t play coy,” said Marco, big eyes bugging at me. “If I print out your photo, will you give me your autograph?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at how genuinely awestruck he sounded.
“Make sure you sign it
“She’s not the sniper,” Chase insisted. “She doesn’t know the sniper. She’s being framed.”
He was right to put a stop to it; I’d seen what happened to the people who gave the MM information about me and it was no laughing matter.
“Told you,” said Polo, resigned. He shoved Marco’s shoulder. “You know, I met him once,” he added.
“Here we go,” groaned Marco.
“What?” Polo looked injured.
“He met this guy in Chicago like, ten years ago who said the way to break down the FBR was to go to a public place and take out one soldier at a time,” explained Marco. “As if no one’s ever had that idea before.”
“It was like… four… or five years ago,” Polo pointed out. “And anyway, he was tough. He’d fought overseas, before the War. He showed up at the FBR enlistment office in old army fatigues, spouting all this stuff about how President Scarboro and his Restart America buddies were behind the attacks.”
“What?” I stole another bottle of water. “Insurgents were behind the attacks.” I’d memorized the word from the news reports we’d watched in my living room, but it wasn’t until high school that I learned what it actually meant.
The people who had bombed the major cities weren’t terrorists from a foreign land, though many suspected that’s where they’d gotten their support. They were American citizens. They were born and raised in our towns, in our schools, and held jobs that weren’t particularly special.
But they were poor, even though they were educated, and even though they worked. They lived like my mother and I did, paycheck to paycheck, and when the money wasn’t coming in, on what assistance they could find. One of the Insurgents was the manager of a restaurant—a normal looking guy with a receding hairline—and when he gave his statement before execution he said that he was tired of sleeping in the back of the kitchen, feeding his kids rich people’s scraps. He just wanted to level the playing field.
My mother told me once that the world was like her favorite singer, an overly busty blonde with a tiny waist. It was just a matter of time before her middle was stretched too thin and she broke in half.
And that’s what the Insurgents had done. They’d broken the world in half. They’d hit every major city on the coasts, and some of the big ones in the middle, too—like Chicago and Dallas—and when it was done, nobody was rich, and nobody trusted anyone.
That was when Scarboro became president. Maybe before people thought his rigid stance on government control was a joke, but they didn’t anymore. It wasn’t two months after he’d taken office that the military branches—what were left of them—were relieved of duty, and the Reformation Act came into effect. It was said that Reinhardt, the man he’d named the Chief of Reformation—the man who had nearly been assassinated while we’d been in Knoxville—was responsible for the changes, including the creation of the Moral Statutes.
Polo leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Yes, but how did the Insurgents get their bombs?”
“Same way we get our guns,” said Sean, although he didn’t sound so sure. “They stole them. Or bought them on the underground.”
“That’s a lot of firepower,” said Polo, conspiracy brightening his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s true, but this guy— he had a point. Scarboro and his pal Reinhardt were backed by Restart, and Restart had money. Tons of money. Lots of people believed in their cause, too—getting rid of the division between religion and the government, bringing back those old-fashioned values. Think about it. He sets up the crash, then swoops in to save the day.”
“Ridiculous,” said Tucker dismissively.
Polo laughed. “The Insurgents effectively brought down our nation. I’ve yet to see Three make that kind of stand.”
“What do you know about Three?” I asked.
