Unleashed

  “They’re dead, Marcus. Tabatha. All of them.” Caden’s voice falls hard. I glance at him. A vein throbs in his temple. I notice his eyes are bloodshot. He’s tired . . . and blaming himself.

  “How?” Marcus demands, his nasal voice especially sharp. Some of the color bleeds from his cheeks. He’s not unaffected.

  “They were attacked—”

  “And she was spared?” Marcus waves a hand at me, the color flooding back into his face in an angry rush of blood. “Isn’t that convenient?”

  Caden grasps my arm and skirts me around Marcus and Ruben. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  Feet pound after us. “No, Anderson. Not tomorrow—”

  Caden jerks to a stop and whirls around. “Not now, Marcus. It’s late. We’ve been through enough for a day,” he growls, his voice tight and shaking with emotion.

  Marcus glares, pressing his mouth into a hard line. He doesn’t try to stop us, and I guess he understands that to push any further would be crossing a line. Caden resumes walking, taking us straight to Junie’s room.

  “Home sweet home,” Junie declares, striding into the space after us.

  Caden’s eyes scan me, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. Those bloodshot eyes stare so intently. I know there’s a lot going on inside him. “I’ll have Phelps come check you over.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” His gaze slides to Junie sitting on the bottom mattress, working her boots free. Of course he doesn’t want anyone to know that there is a traitor in our midst.

  “Yes. Tomorrow.” I nod, my fingers reaching up to rub softly at my aching shoulder.

  “Get some rest.” He turns to go and stops at the door, stands there for a moment looking at me. It’s the first quiet moment since everything happened. Since the shooting. Since he found me running for my life from those carriers out there. For a second, I forget that Junie’s even in the room. It’s like it’s just the two of us, communing privately with each other, our awareness of each other sharp on the air.

  Finally, he says, “I’m glad you’re okay.” And then he’s gone.

  Junie drops one boot to the floor, then the next. “What was that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t seen him look at a girl that way before. I would have noticed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just . . . friends.” It’s safe to say that. He’s not nothing to me. I can’t pretend that anymore.

  “Truly. Not even Tabatha.” At the mention of Tabatha, she clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “Poor Tabatha. I mean, dying sucks . . . but dying while pining away for someone who wants nothing to do with you. Blows.” She lifts off the bottom bunk and starts undressing.

  Caden wanted nothing to do with her? For a moment I debate my reply before deciding it’s one of those things that doesn’t require a response.

  Junie’s fingers deftly unravel her braids. Pulling a fresh shirt over her head, she vaults up to the top bunk. “Looks like you’ll be staying awhile now.”

  “I’m still leaving,” I insist.

  She responds with an indifferent grunt.

  I stare at her on the top bunk for a moment. She laces her hands behind her head, gazing up at the ceiling. Only another day for her. When the lights go out, I wonder if she’ll think about Tabatha and the others who died today. Will she think about the man she killed? Will she dream of their ghosts?

  Her words sink in. I’m going to be here for a while. I drop down on the edge of the bed and stare blindly at my dusty boots. I know I disagreed with her, but I’m not sure how I even feel about it anymore. I had wanted to leave so badly, but when I saw Caden tonight—

  Phelps knocks once and breezes into the room. “Hey there, Davy, welcome back. Let’s look you over again. Heard you had a rough night. Shame about Tabatha.”

  I manage a small snort at this monster of all understatements.

  He stops in front of me, chafing his palms together to warm them. “You just can’t stay away, can you?”

  Rhiannon follows, looking less exuberant. Her lips press into a grim line as she surveys me. The people who died—Tabatha and the rest—I see them reflected in her gaze. A gaze that settles on me. “Can’t say I’m happy to see you again. I figured you’d be in Mexico by now . . . along with the others.”

  My chest pulls at her words. The others. The others, who are all dead. Of course she isn’t happy to see me. Me gone would mean everything is all right. Tabatha, one of their own, would be all right. No one would be dead.

  Junie and I are the first to the showers the following morning. Only a few of the scouts are up, working out in the training area. Fists pound punching bags and shoes rain down on treadmills. Junie slides me a look as we enter the women’s locker room. “I should be working out with them, but after yesterday I’m not in the mood, you know?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, understanding. It feels strange to simply continue on like nothing happened. Like all those lives weren’t lost.

  Beneath the showerhead, I bend my neck and let the spray beat into my tired muscles. I’m not sure how long I stand there, letting the water relax me as thoughts burn through my mind. Maybe I should just ask for a map and supplies and head out on my own. It couldn’t be worse than the last two times I set out to get across the border.

  By the time I emerge from the comforting spray, Junie’s gone. A couple of other women enter, hesitating when they see me. I nod hello, and they nod back warily. Grabbing my fresh clothes, I move into one of the bathroom stalls to dress and escape their stares. The instant I’m behind the flimsy door, they erupt in whispers.

  Rolling my eyes, I leave the bathroom. A few more people are up and eating breakfast now. I lock my jaw as I walk past the training area. Ruben is there. He presses weights, his face flushed with exertion, a vein popping in his forehead. He starts lifting faster and harder when he sees me. I look straight ahead. Sociopath. I wonder if he’s ever acted on those impulses or if he is just a socially inept jerk.

  Turning down the hall to Junie’s room, I spot Caden there in front of the door. He turns when he sees me, one hand lifted midair to knock. “Hey. You’re up.”

  His hair is damp from a recent shower himself. The dark locks gleam black.

  “Yeah.” I tuck a strand of wet hair behind my ear. It’s a self-conscious gesture—the kind of thing I would have done before when Zac first started paying attention to me—and I’m not sure where it comes from now, since that girl doesn’t exist anymore. Caden’s eyes follow the gesture, and I can’t help it. My gaze drops to his mouth, marveling that those lips kissed me not so very long ago. I never thought I would see him again after that kiss, but here we are.

  I snap my eyes back to his as I stop before him. “Did you need something?”

  He gives a brief nod that’s a little curt for him. His usual smiling optimism has fled him. I guess what happened to Tabatha and the others and the knowledge that a spy hides among us has finally chipped away the last of that. Understandably, but for some reason, this depresses me a little. “Have you eaten?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He gestures back the way I came. We walk side by side down the narrow hall. “How’s your shoulder?”

  “Good.” I rotate it in a small circle, testing it for myself.

  As we enter the main room, his hand drops to the small of my back, guiding me toward the breakfast line. I pick up an apple and fill a bowl with cereal, trying to pretend that I don’t feel dozens of people watching us.

  We sit at a table, just the two of us. We don’t say anything for several moments, eating in silence. My spoon clinks against my bowl. “Why do they always stare at me?” Dozens of carriers have passed through here. It can’t be that. Is it because of Hoyt?

  “Do you really need me to answer that?”

  I shrug.

  “Why should it bother you? We’ve always been watched.” He taps his neck and then motions to mine. “Nothing new, right?
”

  I frown. “Before this my biggest worry was how to spend more time with my boyfriend without offending my best friend.”

  “Maybe you didn’t realize it, but they were watching you . . . or they would have never found out you have HTS. Right? Everyone has always been watched.”

  I shrug again and look over those scattered among the tables, eating their breakfasts. “They blame me. For what happened with Tabatha and the others,” I murmur. “That’s why they’re staring at me. They all died, but I’m alive. They don’t trust me and they blame me.”

  “Davy, that’s not logical—”

  “Fear never is, is it?” My fingers tighten around my apple. “Wainwright, HTS testing . . . it was all made possible because of fear. Fear doesn’t have to be logical. It’s still one great motivator, though.”

  He inhales and exhales, holding my gaze for a long moment. “You’re right. They’re scared,” he returns. “That’s why they stare at you.”

  “They’re scared of me?” I hadn’t meant that they were scared of me. I was being more general. I meant they were afraid of everything going on out there. They were afraid of being caught. Of dying. It still strikes me as crazy that anyone could fear me. Even if I have taken lives. I’m Davy. Former music prodigy who frequently complained of cramps to get out of gym class.

  He nods once.

  “And you’re not afraid of me? Why not? Everyone else is, but you’re sitting here with me. You want me to stay here.” At least he did before.

  He lifts his gaze from his food. He smiles like he used to before I left this place. Like I amuse him. “No. I’m not scared of you.” The warmth in his amber eyes makes my stomach feel fluttery, and I look back out at the room again. “They’re just not used to living with fear yet.”

  I would think anyone marked a carrier would be well acquainted with the sour taste of fear by now.

  Silence stretches. He’s waiting, his gaze fastened on mine. “Are you used to it yet?”

  I shrug. “I’ve learned to control what it is that I feel.”

  He chuckles and takes a bite of toast. “You’re so full of it. You’d like to believe that. Or better yet, you’d like me to believe it.”

  I square my shoulders. “Believe whatever you like about me. What are you going to do about your spy?”

  His gaze sweeps the room, and he looks tired again. Like he did last night. I resist the urge to touch him. Squeeze his shoulder or something. It’s what I would have done for a friend. And he’s that to me. At least. No point denying it. When someone saves your life once—make that twice—he can only be called a friend. “I could tell everyone now. But they’ll assume the spy is you, of course,” he continues, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I could even stop them from pouncing on you.”

  So he’s trying to protect me? My chest tightens. “How are you so sure it’s not me?”

  He looks at me, his eyes clear and deep and full of faith. Faith in me. It’s humbling and not something that I feel I deserve.

  “Because you would have had no way to get a message out to anyone. And you didn’t even know where you were going to be. I realize that.” He nods out at the room. “But they’ll be too emotional to see it that way. And in Marcus’s case, too stupid.”

  “So you’re going to keep this to yourself?”

  “Telling them will lead to hysteria. And your lynching.”

  I pull back my shoulders. “Don’t worry about me.”

  His lips lift in a half smile, and his gaze skims me leisurely. My skin shivers, turning to gooseflesh. As though he’s actually touching me. “Funny. Little late for that.”

  The tightness in my chest intensifies. “So what are you going to do then? You can’t pretend he isn’t here . . . watching us.” Waiting for the next time he can betray us. Kill us.

  “I’m going to set a trap.” He takes a long swig of orange juice from his carton, his throat muscles working. It’s a mesmerizing sight.

  “What kind of trap?”

  “Not sure. Need to figure that out. Our advantage is that this spy doesn’t know we know he exists.”

  Our. That single word fills me with equal amounts elation and trepidation. I don’t want to belong here. I don’t want to be a part of something again.

  I shake my head, wondering if it’s not too late for that and feeling a little panicked. “I don’t have any ideas—”

  “C’mon, you’re smart. You have to have an opinion. I gotta keep things together until the General gets back. If Marcus had his way, we’d be charging off daily, shooting anyone not sporting one of these.” He motions to his neck.

  My hand goes to my throat, fingers closing around it. It’s strange that in this scenario, an imprint is the great unifier.

  He leans forward across the table. “And do me a favor—stop pretending you don’t care. I see you under your tough-girl act.”

  I don’t say anything, simply suffer his hard, all-seeing stare until he moves, pushing back from the table. “Think about it. I’ll stop by later.” He gathers up his trash and leaves me at the table.

  I follow his progress across the room. He joins Terrence and together they disappear into the hall leading to the controls room. Not a glance back for me. No opportunity to insist that it’s not an act. And maybe that would just be pointless anyway, because I suddenly recall my use of the word us when talking about the spy.

  I already see myself as one of them. As a part of this cell. A part of Caden’s life.

  * * *

  Conversation between the United States chief of staff and Dr. Louis Wainwright

  SWITZER: It’s been brought to my attention that your camps aren’t living up to your predictions. They’re overrun. The last report showed a remarkably high death rate within the camps, and the number of escapes and escape attempts is alarming. The president is quite concerned. . . .

  WAINWRIGHT: What reports are you referring to? I haven’t released any—

  SWITZER: Do you think I’m not privy to such information?

  WAINWRIGHT: Of course, I’m only concerned at the accuracy of the information you’re receiving.

  SWITZER: Oh, rest assured, my information is accurate.

  WAINWRIGHT: Results take time. You need to be patient.

  SWITZER: Given the current climate, time and patience are two things the president possesses very little of. Nor you, for that matter. . . .

  TWENTY

  I KNOW THE MOMENT CADEN STANDS UP IN THE middle of dinner that he’s going to make some kind of announcement. It’s a crowded room, almost every chair occupied. Even my table is full. Junie’s friends, Boyce and Roland, two other scouts, sit with us.

  My fork stalls mid-stir in my spaghetti. A hush falls over the room.

  “I knew this was coming.” Junie leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. The guys at the table nod in agreement.

  “Maybe we’ll finally get some answers.” Boyce fingers the long ridge of scar tissue that drags down his cheek. He touches it a lot, drawing even more attention to it, which I think is the opposite of his desire. He’s always looking down at the ground—or in this case, his plate—and letting his hair fall low on his face. He’s not one of those carriers who enjoys looking menacing.

  Roland, on the other hand, looks as pretty as a homecoming king. Not a hair out of place. Even in his fatigues, he looks put-together. “Yeah. Let’s at least address the fact that we lost Tabatha and an entire group of carriers.” Roland looks at me then as he says this, his dark eyes direct and cutting. “Well, except for this one.”

  “She has a name, Roland,” Junie reminds him with an apologetic look at me, tossing her twin braids over her slim shoulders.

  He shrugs. “She’s not staying. What’s the point of learning the names of those just passing through?”

  Caden’s deep voice floats over the room. “You all know we lost one of our own yesterday.”

  Heads nod, and a slow murmur breaks out across the room.


  “Tabatha believed in what we’ve built here. She knew the risks.” Caden hesitates, either to let this sink in or pausing for composure. “She was prepared to die for what she believed in.” His gaze swings over the room. “It’s why my father built this compound. To be a sanctuary for carriers, to help us survive, to fight for what’s right. That’s still what we’re here for, what we’re working toward. That’s what the General is away doing for us right now.” His voice rings out with force and conviction, and something prickles to life inside my chest. I’m not the only one watching with admiration. He’s easy to admire. I don’t know anything about this General—where he is or exactly what he’s doing—but somehow I know this place would be fine without him. As long as they have Caden.

  Suddenly I feel like I’m toeing the edge of a cliff, so close to falling. If I just let go. If I just step off and let myself plunge. The idea is there that I could put my hand in his and be okay. My heart flutters inside the ache of my chest.

  “Pretty words, but what are you going to do about what happened?”

  Caden’s gaze sharpens on Marcus. “What do you suggest? Get a war party going and kill everyone in sight just on the off chance we get the people responsible?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ruben shouts out.

  “Moron,” Junie mutters.

  “Well, I guess that is an excellent plan—for getting us killed. But the idea here is to survive.” Caden looks over the room again, his stare resting the longest on Marcus.

  When moments pass without anyone else chiming in, Caden adds, “I’m temporarily halting all missions. Patrols are getting too thick out there.”

  This stirs up some noise in the room, mostly from Marcus’s corner. Clearly, his little pack is not happy with the announcement.

  “We need to lie low and wait for things to settle down out there. No missions. No convoys. No taking in new carriers.” He means until he ferrets out the spy. I know this without him saying it, and a warm little feeling hums through me at having this connection with him—this innate knowledge of how he ticks.

  Marcus pushes to his feet. “You mean we have to hide like rats in this hole.”