Breaking Point Page 4

  I squeezed my eyes closed and kissed him with that kind of pressure, begging him to make me forget, to feel anything beyond this bottomless, irreconcilable black hole that had torn open inside of me. His teeth skimmed my jaw, nipped my ear, and the groan he drew from my throat made his own breath stutter. He crushed me against him then, closer, impossibly close, scooting to the edge of the chair. I thought he meant to lead us to the bed, but he paused, and in those damp, trembling moments, something between us shifted.

  I clung to him. Like a strong wind might whip him away. And he must have sensed it, because I could feel his fists knot in the back of my shirt and his ragged breaths heat my neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, voice strained. And then again, “I’m sorry,” only this time more desperately.

  He lifted me and placed me on the edge of the bed, and then backed away so fast he stumbled over his boots. I didn’t understand. All I knew was that the emptiness inside of me was filling with something else, a great impenetrable sadness. Cold and unyielding. It was growing fast now, seeping through every part of me.

  I couldn’t see his face in the dark, couldn’t read his expression. I didn’t have much time to anyway. A second later he left and closed the door behind him.

  I fell back on the bed, my lips swollen and hot, my eyes burning with stubborn tears that refused to fall. I drew my knees into my chest and tried to make myself as small as possible. After a while I pulled the blanket over me, but all the heat in the room had left when Chase had.

  I’m sorry, he’d said. Just as he’d said the night he’d told me he couldn’t save my mother. I remembered how broken he’d been then, and as I lay awake, I couldn’t help wondering if he wasn’t still. If either of us would ever really mend.

  CHAPTER

  3

  THE next morning Wallace reported that the MM had set the draft in the Square for that afternoon.

  The euphoria of the previous night was absent now; what remained was a hushed anticipation. Some still wanted to take the soldiers by force, but Wallace insisted we not act without Three’s orders. Instead, he composed a team—Houston, Lincoln, Cara, and three others—to dissuade the crowd. Scattered voices to object to the MM’s control and abuse of power and direct the flow of conversation. Subtle enough not to get Wallace in trouble with Three, but a definite show of resistance, nonetheless.

  In holey shirts and ragged jeans, they departed down the long corridor to the stairs. I watched them disappear beneath the red exit sign, unable to shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. To make matters worse, Riggins was staying back, staffing the radios with Wallace. I’d heard from Billy that our paranoid hallmate was looking for me again, which was ridiculous with everything else going on. I avoided him all the same.

  With everyone loitering outside the door, the fourth floor became cramped and tense. The waiting was too much, and before Riggins could start something I escaped to the roof for some fresh air.

  I wasn’t the only one with that idea. I found Chase sitting alone behind the fire escape on a bench that sank in the center from too much wood rot. When he saw me he rose, thoughts hidden behind a carefully practiced mask. I hated that he could do that; he could save it for the others if he wanted, but not for me. My gaze lowered to the tattered thermal stretched tightly across his chest, and I smoothed down my own shirt in response.

  “I thought you were sleeping,” I said. “You don’t have an assignment right now, right?”

  He shook his head.

  Tentatively, I moved past him and sat on the bench. After a few seconds he sat beside me, a few inches away. We stared at the base, pristine white buildings cutting through the midmorning haze twenty miles over the rooftops, and let the minutes tick by.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked bluntly, and watched his guard drop.

  “You? No.” He shook his head. “No. Last night … I didn’t mean…” He scratched a hand through his black hair, then laughed awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have left.”

  “Why did you then?” I asked.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The heels of his boots made an audible tapping against the cement.

  Fresh air was overrated. I rose to go back downstairs, but he grabbed my hand.

  “You’re grieving,” he blurted. “I didn’t want you to think, I don’t know, I was taking advantage of you.” The words were obviously tied up inside of him, and he sighed, frustrated.

  “I think I was the one taking advantage of you.” I returned to my seat and looked down, but looked down a little ashamed. I hadn’t thought he might feel that way.

  He snorted. “In that case, please. Go right ahead.”

  We both laughed a little at that, but I remembered the way he’d held on to me, just as raw and afraid as I was. I wasn’t the only one grieving, and I wasn’t the only one who felt the weight of my mother’s death between us.

  With the air less tense, I wanted to ask him about the building next door and tell him more about the Horizons truck, and the supplies we’d confiscated. Once, talking to him had been as easy as breathing, but things had gotten complicated.

  I stood up. “Teach me to fight,” I said.

  After a moment, he followed, head tilted in curiosity.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I raised my fists. “To fight,” I said, throwing a fake punch. “You know. Fight.”

  He laughed, and something inside me fluttered.

  “You don’t need to know how to fight.”

  I lowered my hands, placed them on my hips. “You’re kidding, right?” We were under constant threat of attack, even here, surrounded by resistance.

  “You don’t need to fight like that,” he clarified, and laughed again. “Unless you’re planning on taking up boxing.”

  I tried not to smile, but it was hard when he was so clearly amused.

  “How, then?”

  “Well.” He took a step closer and my heart stuttered. His hands shot out and gripped my wrists. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough so that I couldn’t automatically jerk away. “What’s your plan?” His smile had melted.

  I struggled for a few moments—trying to bring my fists together, to pull out of his clutches, to turn my body away—but he was too powerful. I conceded with a huff of breath.

  “Most people coming for you will be bigger and stronger,” he said, moving even closer so that I had to look up to see his face. His chest bumped against mine and I swallowed, feeling every place we connected. “But you’re quick. You’re not going to beat them in a slugfest, but you can get away if someone grabs you.”

  “How?”

  “Where do you break a chain?” he responded. “Look at me,” he said when I glanced down at our hands.

  I pictured a metal chain, one link after another. Staring into his brown eyes I answered, “At the weakest link.”

  “Between my thumb and my fingers is a breaking point.” His thumbs rubbed the sensitive skin of my wrists. “Break out.”

  I took a deep breath, and then as quickly as I could, twisted my wrists and pulled them together, right through the gap in his grip.

  I beamed. “Now what?”

  “Now you run,” he said, grinning back. “But if you can’t, go for soft spots. Eyes, ears, mouth, neck…” He gestured lower and I averted my gaze. “Like I said, you’re quick. Don’t think twice. Hit a soft spot and get out.”

  He grabbed my wrists again, and this time I didn’t hesitate. I twisted out, then turned to run, but before I’d made it two steps he’d caught me, his forearm pressed lightly against my neck so that if I moved forward, I’d choke. My hands went straight to his hold, trying in vain to pull it down. His muscles flexed against me, but didn’t tighten. My back rested flush against his chest, which was warm and solid, and pressed more firmly against me with each breath.

  “Tuck your chin,” he whispered. I could feel his lips move against my neck and shivered.

  Giving up on moving his arm, I d
id as he said and burrowed my chin into his muscle. When I’d succeeded on sliding beneath his hold, I could breathe easier, though still not escape.

  He told me I could kick back with my heel, drag it down his shin, and stomp on his foot, but when I tried he sidestepped out of the way, pulling me like a rag doll with him.

  “Get as much air as you can,” he instructed, “then, all at once, shove your hips back and lean forward. It’ll throw me off balance.”

  I breathed in as deeply as I could, and pushed back against him.

  It didn’t work. We straightened, struggled, and then at some point became still. Every inch of my skin heated. I could scarcely breathe, feeling his heart pound against my shoulder.

  “Not fast enough,” he said, voice thick.

  Though his hold loosened slightly, his forearm stayed pressed to my throat, but the other hand holding it in place lowered, fingers inching down my waist to drag across my stomach. I gasped.

  “You can get away any time you want.”

  I could, but I didn’t want to. His nose nuzzled my neck, then drew up behind my ear. My knees weakened, and my eyes drifted closed.

  Someone broke through the stairway. The door clanged so hard against the metal stop we both bolted apart.

  Sean. He closed the distance between us, his hair disheveled and a wild look on his face.

  “Lincoln radioed from the Square,” he said. “You should hear this.”

  One unsteady breath, one last look into Chase’s eyes, and I followed.

  * * *

  SEAN didn’t hesitate. He flew down the stairs, leaving us scrambling in his wake, the worry over what had happened increasing with each step.

  “You two picked a great time to disappear.”

  “What is it?” I called after him. “What happened? Is someone hurt?” I pictured the faces of those that had left this morning.

  “Not us,” he said. “Them.”

  “What?”

  We’d reached the fourth floor, and instead of answering, he pushed through into the hallway. It was like stepping into a party. People were cheering; even Riggins had taken on both brothers in a play wrestling match.

  He paused when he saw us. There was a strange look on his face as he approached, almost curious, but for the ever-condemning speculation in his glare. I blushed, wondering if he knew what Chase and I had been doing upstairs, and braced for him to say something nasty.

  “Where’ve you two been?” he asked.

  “Not now, Riggins,” warned Chase. To my surprise, Riggins nodded slowly and backed away.

  Billy elbowed in beside us, face flushed. He was carrying Gypsy, who was practically screeching from all the noise. “Can you guys believe it?” The cat sank her teeth into his wrist and he wailed, then dropped her on the floor. She darted away between our legs.

  “What’s going on?” Chase was not entertained.

  Sean led us through the crowd to the surveillance room, where Wallace was pacing from one corner to the other. If not for the grin plastered across his face I would have thought him seriously distressed.

  Chase grabbed a radio from the coffee table and tuned it to the right frequency. We held it between us and cupped our hands over our opposite ears to drown out the noise. It was the FBR channel, and a male voice crackled through.

  “All units to Market Square. There is a code seven in progress, repeat, code seven. Four soldiers down. Fire taken from above, single action, long-range sniper assault. All units cleared to return fire.”

  “They’ve been repeating the same message for the last hour,” said Sean.

  “The sniper?” I felt the blood rush from my face. “What’s a code seven?”

  “Code seven is a civilian attack on a soldier.” Chase’s expression was grim. It seemed like he and I were the only ones who found the event sobering. “Any word on our people?” he asked Wallace.

  “Not yet,” Wallace said. His grin had faded. “They’ll come home when they can.”

  I closed my eyes. “They’re probably right in the middle of this.”

  I didn’t even want to say it, much less visualize it. But it was too late. Maybe we all weren’t the best of friends, but I didn’t want to see any of them dead.

  “These are the risks we take,” said Wallace simply.

  However much I wanted to argue it, he was right.

  “We need to double the perimeter guards,” Chase said to Wallace. “Now, before soldiers start digging around the slums and Tent City.”

  Wallace slowed to a stop and shook his head, as if waking from a dream.

  “Very good, Jennings,” he said.

  * * *

  SECURITY was increased, as Chase has recommended. Nearly everyone was cleared from the building, assigned to tasks that secured the safety of our refuge. Just a few were left behind, Billy, Wallace, and me. Even Chase was detailed to the motel lobby.

  I’d stayed on the fourth floor, itchy since the report that the sniper was so close. I wanted to do something, too, though I didn’t know what.

  Four hours passed with no movement. I listened to the radio reports, which confirmed that four soldiers had been killed by sniper fire from a rooftop overlooking the Square. A riot had flashed only briefly, and nine civilians had died in the crosshairs. I prayed none of them were our people.

  In the fifth hour three of our people returned, smelling strongly of sweat and streaked with grime. They hadn’t seen the others, but brought word that the Square had been locked down by soldiers, who’d made everyone lay across the bricks until the rooftops were cleared. Tent City had been overturned in the search.

  In the seventh hour Houston and Lincoln came back. They laughed about how crazy it had been. It was a little too forced maybe, but they laughed.

  No one said Cara’s name. Not even Billy, who had a hard time keeping his mouth shut.

  I grew annoyed with the radio reports. They were running the same message, over and over. The sniper’s tally was up to eleven. The highways had been closed, cutting off access in and out of Knoxville to anyone not working for the FBR. Things had changed—the city, even within the Wayland Inn, felt different.

  That night no one said a word at dinner. Not even to complain about the peas, which had gone yellow sometime since they’d been canned.

  * * *

  LATER, I would look back on the next morning’s meeting and be able to count a dozen clues that should have made me realize everything was about to change. The way Billy refused to meet my eyes, for instance, or the way Wallace stared at me, lost in thought, and then blew off Riggins when he asked if Cara had called in. The way the radios, which had been covering different channels all night, were all silent.

  “Quiet down,” Wallace said. His face was a mixture of awe and concern, like he was surprised about something. It made my stomach tighten involuntarily. Wallace was never surprised about anything.

  “It’s Cara,” I heard Lincoln whisper to Houston. His face was ashen, his freckles that much more severe.

  “I lost sight of her,” said Houston more to himself than anyone else. “Before the shooting even started.” He swore, angry with himself.

  “She does that, man,” said one of the other guys. “Don’t worry about it. Cara follows Cara’s rules. Doesn’t mean anything. She always shows back up.”

  I cranked my head toward the guy who’d spoken. Not much taller than me, with a patchy beard and a pointed nose, Sykes they called him.

  Wallace lifted the handheld radio. “They started looping a new feed about twenty minutes ago,” he said. “You’re all going to hear it eventually, we might as well get it over with together. As a family.”

  The radio hissed with static as he adjusted it to the right frequency.

  A familiar male reporter’s voice filled the quiet hall, where the grieving for Cara was threatening to spill over.

  “… the Bureau’s office of intelligence has issued a list of five suspects thought to be in collaboration with the sniper. All bases in R
egion Two-fifteen have orders to post photos of these individuals in the community and offer rations passes in compensation for legitimate leads. A code one is called into effect for the following fugitives:

  “John Naser, aka John Wright, religious extremist in violation with Article One. Robert Firth, former FBR captain suspected of selling arms to civilians. Patel Cho, political rights activist who escaped capture during Long Distance Explosive Device demonstrations in Red Zone One.”

  I glanced across the hall to Chase, whose expression had gone grim. I hadn’t heard of Long Distance Explosive Devices, but I knew what bombs could do. I’d seen the aftermath on the news as a child.

  “Aiden Dewitt, former doctor of medicine, responsible for the murders of five FBR officers during a routine home inspection.”

  I remembered Dr. Dewitt. He was from Virginia somewhere and had been all the talk at the soup kitchen about five years ago after news of how he’d flipped out had reached my town. Some of the others were whispering; I guess they’d heard of him, too.

  “Ember Miller, responsible for multiple counts of treason, escaped the Knoxville FBR base after faking completion approximately four weeks ago. All suspects should be considered armed and dangerous. Ending report now.”

  You could have heard a pin drop the room was so quiet. The FBR reporter went on to say a few more things—roadside patrols were still posted around the city of Knoxville, more information could be found on the mainframe—then his voice faded into static, in much the same way that I wanted to fade into the floorboards of this cheap motel.

  “Wow,” I heard Sean say.

  “No knee-jerk responses, anyone. Got that?” Several people muttered agreement. “Jennings? Miller?” Wallace asked specifically. “You’re both grounded until further notice. That’s an order.”

  Chase was right at my side, ignoring Wallace. He didn’t need to say a word. I knew exactly what he was thinking. Tucker Morris, his one-time partner, the soldier who had killed my mother, had broken his word and turned me in. It was the only explanation. How I could have trusted him not to rat us out in the first place, even if it did mean his precious career, now seemed a mystery.