“I think you look cute,” I said.
“Cute,” he repeated, as if I’d just called him something really terrible. He leaned down and kissed me—the kind of kiss that made the world tilt on its axis—and I gripped his shirt so I didn’t fall over.
“Right,” I heard Sean say somewhere beyond the rushing in my ears. “Thanks for making me a part of this.”
Chase drew back slowly and I pulled away, unable to look directly at our friend. My lips still tingled. He seemed different today. Something about this place was changing him, maybe even healing him. He smiled more easily, and for the first time since Chicago I didn’t sense that thoughts of Harper were waiting to drag him under. He needed a purpose, and Endurance was giving him that.
“You guys haven’t seen my uncle, have you?” Chase asked.
I shook my head, thrust back into the present as quickly as I’d been flung out of it. At once I recalled everything that had happened while Chase and I had been apart. We needed to talk.
“I thought he joined up with you,” said Sean.
“He did.” Chase scratched the back of his head. “But he disappeared right after. Thought maybe he’d say good-bye first.” He chuckled dryly, but it was obvious he didn’t think the situation funny. I placed my hand in his and gave it a light squeeze.
Rebecca joined us, frowning.
“Something’s happened.” She nodded toward the concrete corner where Billy had staked his claim. A small group of people had gathered around them—mostly survivors, but others from Endurance as well.
We headed toward them, joined by others as we passed the rest of the serving tables. Soon the music faded, and those that had been dancing joined the pack.
Chase grabbed my hand and pulled me through to the front to where Jack sat on the bench of a picnic table, head in his hands. Billy was standing on the seat beside him adjusting the dials on an old radio he held against his chest.
“What’s going on?” Chase asked.
“They’ll play it again—it’s run on two different channels already,” said Billy, biting off the words. I remembered what the tech had said about boosting the signal with a tower and wondered for one alarming moment if Billy had connected with Tucker.
He clicked a switch at the top of the radio, eliciting a loud screech that made the back of my jaw light up. A second later the crackle of static, magnified off the patio, gave way to a familiar woman’s voice.
“… Reinhardt, who made his first public appearance this morning after surviving the attempt on his life in Region 414 last month, told reporters that measures have already been taken to crack down on domestic terrorism.”
A short crackle came from the radio, and then another voice, this one male but softer, almost delicate, came through.
“The president has deemed Reformation to be the highest priority of our country, and I for one will not rest until that goal is achieved. Those who oppose progress shall be dealt with quickly, and without mercy.”
Beside me, Rebecca gasped.
“The Chief of Reformation,” she said. “He visited the hospital in Chicago once.” Sean pulled her close under one arm.
“The chief reported that the individual responsible for the handmade bomb, delivered to him in person at a fundraising dinner, is still at large, but that all available resources will be dedicated to bringing him and his associates to justice. To demonstrate his seriousness, Chancellor Reinhardt has signed execution orders on fourteen suspects thought to be in collaboration with the rebellion, and released the name of one Thomas “the Truck” Rhodes, a known terrorist out of Chicago, who was executed this morning at the Charlotte Prison.”
“No,” I murmured. Part of me had accepted it would come to this, but had been denying it all the same. Hearing it out loud made it so much worse.
Jack rose, red in the face, and shoved away through the crowd. One of the other survivors followed him. I wanted to as well, but my boots were stuck in place.
I pictured the musclehead carrier with the missing tooth. I remembered how he’d fought us just to see which side we were on, and driven us and the other survivors from Chicago’s tunnel explosion to the coast. My name’s Truck, came a weak voice in the back of my mind, because I drive the truck.
I looked at Chase, horrified. A muscle in his jaw ticked.
The Chief of Reformation’s voice came on again.
“Despite our efforts to rehabilitate, these terrorists are determined to bring our country to ruin. They admit to being directly responsible for the deaths of good, honest people in Tennessee, in Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, and Virginia. Though they don’t call themselves insurgents, make no mistake that they are terrorists, and before they can do the same damage as that of their predecessors, they will be stopped, expunged, as a demonstration of the power of Reformation. The safety of our people is too important to take any chances.”
He was speaking to us. To Three. I could almost feel the MM’s cold watch slide over Endurance.
The female reporter returned to the broadcast.
“Citizens are, as always, encouraged to contact the FBR with information on any suspicious activity, and reminded that assisting the noncompliant is in direct violation of the Moral Statutes. With more to come on this story, I’m Felicity Bridewell.”
The line went dead.
I remembered where I’d heard her voice then: in a farmhouse in Virginia, where a couple had tried to turn us in as fugitives after she’d reported our flight. We’d barely escaped.
Nice to hear she was still the MM’s mouthpiece.
“Maybe Reinhardt’s bluffing,” said Sean, but we all knew he wasn’t. Truck was gone, and we didn’t know who would be next.
“The chief’s a dead man,” said one of the fighters behind us.
“How many times you going to say that?” asked another. “Not like we haven’t been trying.”
At the Wayland Inn we’d heard a radio report that someone had nearly succeeded in assassinating the Chief of Reformation. We’d suspected Three’s involvement, little that we knew about them. We’d been right.
“Shut it off.”
We turned, finding Dr. DeWitt, chin lifted, gaze cold. Those around him cleared a space, as if at any moment he might erupt, like he presumably had when he’d killed those soldiers before going on the run.
“You shut it off.” Billy swung the radio at the doctor, but Chase, between them, snagged it from the air. He pressed the top button, and the red light above the speaker went dark.
Truck was gone, not killed in an attack, but murdered by the FBR as a message to the resistance. Tucker could be next. A strange sense of numbness filled me as I considered the possibility of my mother’s killer dying in the same manner that she had.
“Are you aware there are children around?” DeWitt said evenly.
Billy scoffed and tossed back his hair. “I’d heard worse by the time I was their age.”
“Then it was a shame there was no one there to protect you,” DeWitt said.
Billy stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing away. There had been someone who’d looked out for Billy—Wallace. And now he was gone.
“What about the other thirteen?” said Chase, but we both knew that number meant nothing. The MM executed who they wanted, when they wanted. This was just the first time they chose to acknowledge it.
“We’re dealing with it,” said DeWitt.
“Doesn’t look like it,” muttered Billy. “If I hadn’t lifted this radio none of us would even know this was happening.”
To my left, Sarah hugged a bowl of soup tightly to her chest. We’d been pretending everything was fine while Felicity Bridewell had been broadcasting Truck’s death across the country.
“Billy could find them,” said Sean. “Get him on the mainframe. He can find anyone.”