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AND THAT’S THAT. Amos stabbed his spoon into his half-eaten stew, trying to ward off bitterness. Just another routine after-action report. Some casualties to report, sir, but the mission was a success.
In this case, Aubrey was alive and three others were not.
The barista died trying to protect you. His inner voice was quick to accuse. And you don’t even know her name. Her grave is even more unmarked than Stephen’s.
“What about our newest Runner?” Garr’s expression was bleak after hearing Don’s report, but he continued his round of questioning, the last one directed at Sheila. “Has she woken up?”
Sheila shook her head. “She didn’t say a word on the way here, and she’s been out cold since we arrived. I’m not surprised. She’s been on the run for days, and this was the third time a Tracker got within striking range. Four days ago, she was the country girl Jane mentioned. She deserves a lot of credit for adapting as fast as she has.”
Don moved across Amos’s line of sight as he retrieved a small rucksack, hefting it aloft in one of his massive fists. “Well, let’s not disappoint the poor girl. We’ve got to keep moving.”
Garr eyed him, eyebrows raised. “You think this little hidey-hole might not be as secure as we thought?”
Don frowned, shaking his head. “Nothing specific about this location, no. Our newest Runner still has her Implant, that’s all. It’s only a matter of time before she’s activated. Or before another Tracker comes scanning her way.”
Sheila began cleaning the small cooking area. “Don’t forget she’s been Tracked more than once already. I know I’m repeating myself, but for some reason, she seems to be a special target. We’re on borrowed time.”
“There must be more than just her and me.” Amos lurched to his feet. “Why aren’t the Trackers hunting down every Runner, regardless of whether their Implants have been activated or not?”
Garr stood in the middle of their small circle, arms flexing as he rubbed his hands together. “Who’s to say they’re not? We don’t have enough intel to know. Right now, those questions can wait.”
He glanced around the room. “We’re going to have to split up. Sheila, you and I will take Jane and our newest Runner with us.”
“Aubrey,” Sheila said sharply, interrupting him. “Her name is Aubrey.”
Garr paused for a moment, his eyes resting on Sheila. “Of course. Aubrey will come with us. We’ll take a different route back, and cover our tracks as best as we can. Amos, you’ve got another stop to make first.”
Amos looked up from his now-empty bowl at this unexpected change in plans. “Are you sure splitting up is a good idea? We’ve been Tracked—or Aubrey has—three times in just a couple of days. Now we’re going back into the City. That only increases the risk.”
Your plans are better than Garr’s, now? Amos heard his inner voice sneer. You’re second-guessing the Colonel?
Garr looked back and forth between Amos and Don. “Normally, I’d agree with you. We’re running a gauntlet, and I’d rather have as many eyes and hands as possible. But you’ve got unfinished business. We need the Implant you hid out there.”
That’s right. Amos nodded wordlessly. I told Sheila and Don about my Implant. Of course, they relayed the info to Garr. Probably while I was asleep.
“I’m going with Amos,” Don said, back to his no-nonsense demeanor. It was a statement, not a request. Garr was no longer the Colonel, although they often deferred to him as if he were. But Don wasn’t asking for permission.
“You’ll be posing as hikers,” Garr replied, not missing a beat. “Take blankets and utensils. Pack light, make as quick a journey as you can, and don’t draw attention.”
Don nodded, removing the rucksack he’d shouldered. He stepped past Sheila to the small cache of supplies stored in the hidden bunker.
Amos joined him, picking out a compact blanket and some army surplus cooking utensils, cramming them into his pack. The same one he’d hidden his Implant inside when he first started this journey.
No, on second thought, maybe not. For once, his inner voice was helpful, even reasonable. The chance of it carrying anything Track-able is far-fetched, but you never know.
“Burn this, will you?” Amos held out the pack to Sheila. She paused in her clean-up, a quizzical expression on her face.
“Maybe I’m being paranoid.” Amos shrugged. “But I carried my Implant in it after I left the Mission.”
Sheila took the rucksack from him, squatting down beside the cooking unit.
“If I burn the whole thing, it’ll make too much smoke.” She spoke her thoughts out loud. “I’ll cauterize the part where the Implant was stored and leave it here. I’d guess nobody but us knows about this bunker, but why risk it?”
“Exactly.” Amos nodded, grateful she understood.
“And you’re only paranoid if something isn’t trying to kill you.” Don finished repacking and shouldered his rucksack a second time. Amos copied his actions, instinctively feeling for the handle of his hunting knife.
“How long, do you figure?” Garr watched as Sheila charred the outside pocket of Amos’s rucksack. Once the Colonel settled on a course of action, he was chafing to put it into motion.
“One night, maybe two,” Amos replied, as he estimated the distance and terrain separating them from the cave. “Where’s the safest rendezvous in the City?”
Garr stopped them in their tracks with his answer.
“I assumed we’d all head for the Mission. Where else?” He seemed bemused by the question. “There’s other Hubs we could visit, but why not just go home?”
Amos exchanged looks with Don and Sheila, uncertain how to broach the subject. Well, it’s time to pay the piper. He shrugged mentally. The Mission is your fault, so it falls on you to tell Garr what happened.
But Don beat him to it.
“Garr, I wish there were some other way to tell you this, but I guess I’ll just say it,” he said, his voice oddly gentle. “The Mission’s been compromised. The Hoarders attacked, and as far as we know, Amos was the only one from our Hub who escaped. Besides us, of course.”
Garr’s amused reaction surprised everyone.
“That’d be news to Doc and the crew.” He grinned widely, looking ten years younger. “I was in the mess hall when the Trackers showed up. Amos took off like a shot, so we lost track of him, if you’ll pardon the pun. But Doc Simon is fine, just fine.”
His three comrades were immobilized, staring, shocked into silence. Doc made it out. Did any of the others survive?
Garr’s face became serious, and his voice lost its carefree note. “We lost some good people. But the Trackers only hit the above-ground operations. They were tipped off, somehow, that the Mission was a strategic meeting place. But they didn’t discover the trapdoor to the sub-basement. Our Hub’s exact location remains a secret. John’s sure of that.”
John survived. Amos exhaled a slow breath. The Mission still has its manager.
Garr faced Amos squarely, his voice tinged with the old military authority. “Stop beating yourself up, Amos. None of us—not even Doc—thought a stolen scanner would bring them down on us. It’s not your fault, and nobody blames you.”
He placed a strong hand on Amos’s shoulder, gripping tightly. “I need you focused. We’re not out of the woods yet. A guilty conscience is an impediment none of us can afford. You, least of all.”
He’s right. The good news of Doc’s survival clashed with the knowledge it was his fault the attack happened at all. But people are dead because of me.
“Did you hear me?” Garr’s voice sharpened, his eyes piercing as he confronted Amos. “You don’t have the luxury of guilt or self-pity. We need you, and we need you focused. Do I make myself clear?”
Snap out of it. People are depending on you. For once, Amos and his inner voice were in full agreement. Self-recrimination was a distraction, and wallowing in it could have disastrous consequences. There would be time later to sort through memory and emotion. Not now. Later.
He straightened his shoulders, meeting Garr’s gaze with all the confidence he could muster, his hand ready on the handle of his knife. Garr read the resolve in his eyes, neither of them saying anything further.
Amos felt Don’s heavy hand clasp his other shoulder. He recognized the distant feeling of camaraderie from the old days.
“The Mission it is, then.” Don’s baritone drawl rumbled near Amos’s ear. “Give us two days and we’ll be back, home sweet home. And I expect nothing less than a hot, home-cooked meal waiting for us. Agreed?”
Garr nodded, smiling without much humor as he shut down the cooking unit.
Leave it to Don to lighten the mood. Amos was grateful as the two of them fell into the familiar rhythm of preparing to abandon their hidey-hole. He keeps us all from crawling the walls.
“I’ll let Jane and Aubrey know.” Sheila ducked into the darkened corridor.
Garr joined them, stowing the remaining rations into a nondescript cupboard leaning against one of the walls. He shrugged as he caught Amos’s quizzical expression.
“We might find ourselves hiding here again one day,” he said. “Never take more than is necessary.”
Be thankful for the little things. Amos nodded, tightening the straps on his rucksack. Tiny alcoves hidden in the sewers and subway tunnels, where nobody ever goes. Stocked and ready.
He was astounded at times with how much they got away with, just below the surface of the City. Dave’s café was exposed, even in its remote location. This alcove, at least, feels more secure. As long as we keep moving.
Sheila burst into the room, her precipitous entrance commanding their attention.
“They’re gone.” She skidded to a halt, breathless, eyes wide.
They stared at her, uncomprehending. Sheila gestured over her shoulder, more agitated than Amos had seen her in a long time. “Jane. Aubrey. They took some supplies and disappeared . . .”
Garr’s bleak expression spoke volumes. Don sighed and shook his head, eyes closed in disbelief. Amos stiffened, remembering Jane’s trauma after pulling the trigger.
She’s never been the same. It hadn’t been all that long ago, just over a year. Amos recalled how miserable and uncommunicative she’d been on the first anniversary of the fateful day.
Garr wasted no time in making his decision. He picked up one of the packs, handing it to Sheila, who slung it over her shoulder with the casual ease of someone long accustomed to it.
“Amos and Don, you’ve got your orders,” Garr said with finality. “We’ll see you at the Mission. Sheila, you’re with me. We’ll track them down.”
The former Colonel stiffened, his unfortunate choice of words disrupting his concentration. Don frowned, and Sheila’s hand shook as she adjusted a strap on her rucksack.
It’s the truth, no matter how ugly. Amos felt a growing sense of dread. We’ve got to track them down before a Tracker does. Jane, what are you thinking?
They set off at a brisk pace down the tunnel, parting ways about a kilometer further. Garr and Sheila continued due north, not looking back, driven by necessity.
Don led the way down a smaller side tunnel, angling more or less in an easterly direction. Amos did his best to ignore the brackish water creeping downstream beside them, its foul odor a constant reminder of where they were. Don knew the most expedient route back to the surface, and Amos was content to follow, working diligently to keep up to the big man’s dogged pace.
Your turn is coming. His inner voice’s warning was smug and disdainful. How long can you beat the odds? Are you sure only Don knows the Story? It would be such a shame to lead your friends into another trap.
Amos tried to drown out the condemning thoughts. People were counting on him, and his focus needed to be razor-sharp, not distracted by guilt or remorse. Garr’s words came back to mind. You don’t have the luxury.
But as he continued in Don’s wake, their footsteps echoing in the damp passage, the accusing voice seemed to reverberate over and over in his mind.
My turn is coming.