Despite our best efforts, few survived faster than light travel.  None survived the trip back.  So we took a different approach altogether.  We started bringing the universe to us.

There’s no point.  We’ve solved it.  Everything humanity needs, it has.  We’ve reached the finish line.

There’s no point.  What hasn’t changed in the last four hundred years won’t change in our lifetimes.

There’s no point.  Turn off the lights, close your eyes, and cover your ears, nightmares come manifest.

Three storylines from three individuals, worlds and eras apart.

Seek.

Banner art appears after the prologue chapters end.

 

Final Chapter

---

After Ward, I stated my general plan to do shorter serials, and one big reason I was doing that was the lower level of investment on my part.  So soon after Ward, I didn’t want to commit to something epic length and experience the same issues that had plagued Ward from start to finish.  Then Pale ended up being really nice to write, and I decided to go with it.

Claw, as it happened, ended up being a chance to try that shorter serial experiment.  Things with the artist fell through but I also didn’t feel like my ideas for Project S were quite there.  Plus I was just really busy, having just moved & had it been a disaster on arrival.  I had a few goals going in.  One was to show myself I could write something shorter.  I’ve had discussions with agents who’ve floated the idea of pitching something at a publishing company, and knowing I can write something more compact is nice, if it comes down to it.

For much the same reason I didn’t want to write Worm and Wormverse stuff forever, despite its initial success, I felt like I should also shake off other habits and tendencies, besides length.  It felt like I should, and a short serial made sense as a time to do it.  It gave me a chance to examine why I write certain things, and see my writing naked.

It’s for this reason, I think, that a lot of writing teachers and professors ask students not to write fantasy or sci-fi.  It strips things bare.  There’s merit in that; it’s rare I’ve had as visceral a reaction to a chapter as I’ve had to Ripley’s.  It lands harder than fates worse than death, because it’s more real.  Something people can empathize with.

The drawback, however, is that it was harder to write.  I was the kid who, sitting at the dinner table, drawing on the back of used printer paper, drew endless monsters.  I’m, as a middle aged guy, still very fond of monsters.  I like magic, powers, and magic systems.  I definitely hit some walls with certain chapters (especially near the end) where I normally would have given my characters a chance to pull out little-used tools, be inventive with what they had, and let loose, and those tools weren’t there.  There were several chapters I wrote from scratch three or four times.  They tended to get pretty good receptions once I got there, but getting there was painful.  I can see a world where I could go back to edit some confrontations, to make them more interesting.

While I was shaking that stuff off and seeing how it felt to work without the powers and monsters, I was also shaking off, for lack of a better word, idealism.  Writing Ward, with a heroic main character, and then Pale, with three young characters trying to do good, it adds a pressure.  That pressure mounts when, honestly, even trying to write morally good characters will see a chunk of the readership deeply dissatisfied.  Little things get a lot of attention.  Especially when stakes are high and characters have power, and my stories tend to deal with broken worlds that need people with power and opportunity to fix them, the audience puts a lot of expectations on those characters and care a lot when those characters have any failings at all.

Sidenote: MDFification wrote an interesting treatise on Canadian Politics and how my own (often unwitting) Canadian attitudes toward government, politics, and power shaped Pale, here. Obvious Pale spoilers.  But ties into what I talk about above.  We all have blind spots.  I didn’t consider how my Canadianness might’ve impacted some things.

Writing Mia (and various other elements of the main cast) was a chance to go back to what I did in Worm, and write someone with strong views, while shucking off certain expectations about being good and doing good in favor of a character who creates her own standard for ‘good’ (as most do).  Similarly, I wrote the setting as one that was unforgiving on its own, one that doesn’t try for a standard of ‘good’.  More on setting shortly.

And, while I was experimenting, it was interesting getting to write some adult characters.  I think it’s my tendency to write adults as people who have ‘locked in’ certain views, attitudes, and roles, where it’s a lot of work to change course, especially as life gets in the way.  Maybe this isn’t wholly fair, and, in retrospect, a short serial gives very little room for characters to have full arcs when they’re naturally stubborn.  But, on the other hand, it’s nice to write different kinds of character, where competence doesn’t have people piping up to say “But remember, this character is eleven”, and where characters can be openly sexual and interested in sex without that ‘squick’ sentiment running in the background.

Overall, talking about it purely as an experiment, I’m glad I wrote Claw and especially glad I wrote it as something short.  Had it run long, I think the grimness of it would have worn on the audience, and I would have struggled more with the mundane elements of it.  Maybe characters could’ve had fuller arcs, as I said, or some plotlines could’ve been expanded, but still.  Shaking myself like a muddy dog and feeling lighter afterward.

So.

Setting-wise, what I really wanted here was something comfortably dark (by my personal standard of comfort, mind).  I wanted a setting with its own feel, and I think in setting the mountains on fire to start with, then introducing other elements, I got there.  On a level, it’s hell.  Fire, smoke, riot, bodies, blood, the Fall, the descent into the personalized hell Mia has made for herself.

But it’s a hell we’ve created, collectively, that, as many readers noted, was a very short distance from the real world.  Some details changed, a few things went a little worse, a few elections tilted the other way.

The tricky thing is when we bring kids into such a world.  Ripley, Tyr, and Sterling don’t deserve to have to deal with what they deal with.  Valentina vacillates between adult and child, and finds herself in the final chapter.  How do our characters deal with that?

I also wanted this to be a setting where all the action movies are implied to have happened, but that’s more for fun.  As much as it’s a setting where you can have Beekeepers and bioweapon attacks on the superbowl in the background, I thought it was very important to have someone that wasn’t one of the porn actors or porn actresses of the competency porn (what Mia would call the 10%) be the one to decide the final confrontation.

I must have rewritten that chapter ten times, trying to strike the right notes.

This ended up being a serial where I cornered myself, a lot, and that might be the aspect that sticks with me most, over the long run.  While writing Worm I mentioned a few times that I’d written situations with no idea how characters would get out of them.  That was a thing I did a lot here, and do a lot by habit, but with no magic or powers to give characters a natural toolbox, it became really tricky.  But I also cornered myself with setting constraints, and by having certain moving parts.

How do you write a story with the Mia-Natalie debate happening, without being horribly insensitive to the victims of residential schools, adopted kids, or a half dozen other people?  While being true to the characters?

How do you write someone like Natalie finding the ‘mama bear’ strength to decide the final confrontation, without it being too much of an anticlimax?

How do you thread the needle in a resolution, when different factions of the readerbase will heavily empathize with different characters, or hate their guts?

There are probably a dozen other questions that are escaping me, but it’s late and I want to release this sooner than later.  That feeling of cornering myself and feeling cornered has been something that’s been on my mind for a few years.  The morality stuff above and how people get very invested (which is good) and very upset (which is bad) at the failings of the character/story is part of it.

I’ve said this before, but when you write, everything you write earns.  Write a lot, and you’ll eventually, hopefully, end up with enough new audience finding you that it replaces or exceeds the people who drop away.  But by that same token, you create a growing list of things that pay in negativity.  Write one problematic thing in 2012 and you may well hear about it 52 weeks a year from 2012 all the way to 2024.  It creates that pressure, that feeling of being cornered.  Are you accounting for every variable?  Are you watching everything you write?  Are you being inclusive?  Are you being fair?  Considering implications?  Are you minding your typos?

But quick, while you’re considering all of that, write well.  Write something different enough than what you’ve written before, write something fun, that sparks discussion.  Write fast enough.

Eventually you hit a point where you have to sacrifice something on some front.  Part of why I slowed down some.

Writing Ward, I think I felt like I had dogs chasing me and nipping at my heels throughout, and made decisions that affected the story for the worse.  I was weary at the end.

Pale was freeing because I was writing something I loved.

With Claw I was writing something where I said ‘fuck it’ and threw myself to the dogs, knowing it was a shorter serial and mistakes wouldn’t count as much.  It’s a dark setting that’s mean as hell to everyone involved.  There’s a freedom to that too.

As an experiment and a palate cleanser (at least for myself), I’m okay with that.

Speaking of experiments…  my next serial will also be a bit of an experiment.

Despite our best efforts, few survived faster than light travel.  None survived the trip back.  So we took a different approach altogether.  We started bringing the universe to us.

There’s no point.  We’ve solved it.  Everything humanity needs, it has.  We’ve reached the finish line.

There’s no point.  What hasn’t changed in the last four hundred years won’t change in our lifetimes.

There’s no point.  Turn off the lights, close your eyes, and cover your ears, nightmares come manifest.

Three storylines from three individuals, worlds and eras apart.

Placeholder banner.  I’ve commissioned header art from Syd, who won a Pale fanart contest and who did the snowdrop sweatshirts for the All Pact Up 2 livestream.

It starts in two weeks, and announcements will go up on all story sites, this one included.

Previous Chapter

End

---

In a way, the world Mia dwelt in now fit the world she had been living in for the last decade.  All of the anxiety, all of the worry, feeling as though every set of eyes carried some latent hostility… all of that remained the same now, unchanged except for the fact that it now made objective sense.

She’d had to leave her cell.  It was small enough that it would have been cramped with two women.  It had four.  Marilyn, who some inmates affectionately called ‘Valley Girl’ for some reason Mia hadn’t yet worked out, did not shower until the guards made her, which was once every few weeks, and Mia had her suspicions the woman didn’t use toilet paper.  She slept on the bottom bunk, which, if the cot sagged enough, rested on the floor.  She didn’t like being touched, which was not the best thing when they were crammed into a space.

Mia had sympathy for ‘Valley Girl’ Marilyn.  Either the woman hadn’t had parents to raise her right, or something had happened to her.  So she gave the woman space, and grace.

The old woman was the hardest to deal with, really, in bunk two.  Alternately called Mamita or Elena by other prisoners, she was elderly and dealt with the smell by using heavily scented hand lotion, soaps, and perfumes.  It didn’t cover up the smell.  It magnified it, and made it floral.  Lavender.  And she was almost always in the cell.  Wake up, eat and shower, or shower and eat, depending on the day and the schedule they were in, because the cafeteria was smaller than the inmate population, and then she’d spend half an hour with her group before coming here, using all her scents, urinating, which smelled like the piss of a hundred healthy women, slicing right past the lavender, and sleeping until the next meal, waking up and pissing again, reapplying smells, and so on.

Then Mia, in the third bunk.  She couldn’t turn sideways in bed without her shoulder and arm brushing the metal netting of the bunk above.

And then Adele, who was young, eighteen or nineteen, had mouthed off to a guard to try to look tougher than she was, and gotten stuck in this cell, which might have been intended as a punishment.  She spent a lot of time whining, and talking about her history with her boyfriend.  Not to Mia, but with a few of the other younger women in their block, who seemed to be losing patience with her.  She wasn’t in the cell much.  When she was, she whined about the smells, and every jostling of the bed.

Either way, Mia had needed to get out, because a headache was mounting from the lavender scents.  Even if it multiplied the danger she was in.  Within her cell, she had one angle to watch- the door.  Out here, she was vulnerable from two or three directions, depending on how close she was to another cell.

Now Adele was following Mia to the library.  Which wasn’t usual.  Adele wasn’t a library goer, and she didn’t cling to Mia.  Just the opposite.

Mia’s fellow inmates had made it clear that she had no friends here.  Maybe it would have been possible, but they watched her with angry eyes and gave a hard time to anyone who talked to her.  People had gotten the message, and now nobody approached her.  The book cart skipped her, which was why she was walking to the library.

Their feet banged on the catwalk, joining that cacophony of noise that filled the prison, so she could hear if Adele suddenly started running at her, to close the gap.  Every person who was standing in the doorway of a cell was a potential threat, now.  Doubly so, with Adele behind Mia like this.  If someone was aware of Adele and Mia’s approach, Mia had to figure it out.  Were they about to grab her, push her toward the railing?  That would be how she’d do it.  Adele could help, or use the fact Mia was trying not to fall to stab her in the lower back.

The end of the catwalk had a spiral staircase, enclosed in wire mesh, all coated in rust prevention black.

There was a door that could swing closed at the bottom, used to limit movements in case of any issues.  It was normally locked, and the lock was missing.

Mia pulled on the railing for the extra boost, and for balance, as she stepped past two stairs, stepped on another, and then skipped past another two stairs.  The door swung shut, and she kicked it, hard.

“Inmates!  Do not move!  Do not touch that door!”

Adele came down the stairs double-time, more careful than Mia had been, while Mia fell back against stairs, pulled herself to her feet, and found the woman who’d been closing the door had friends on standby.

Adele’s wider group.  Or the group she wanted to belong to.

Three women weren’t able to push that door shut, but they could keep Mia from getting out.  Leaving her to deal with Adele.  Adele held an improvised blade, a pink safety razor with a larger razor melted into it.

At the bottom of an enclosed staircase with a blocked door.

“You know I can’t see my daughter for the next fifteen years?”

“Longer, after this.  What does that have to do with me?”  If she could buy time with this back and forth, and Adele’s clear lack of courage, maybe the C.O.s would come.

“You took kids from their mother?  You don’t deserve to live.  Nobody here thinks you deserve to live.”

“I rescued them from a shit situation.  The cops were arresting their parents.  You don’t have the full story.”

“Bullshit.”

“You-”

Mia ducked as Adele swung that weapon.  It was more a weapon to slice a throat with, if the target was unaware.  Here, with bars on either side, she couldn’t swing very hard or far.

Mia motioned like she was going to grab for the weapon after one swing, then went low.  Adele’s foot was on one step ahead of her, and Mia was in position to grab for it.  Adele pulled her leg back, but her flip-flop caught on the stair, and Mia got a grip, hauling Adele off her feet.

She’d hoped the young woman would drop her weapon, but she didn’t, so Mia took a step back, pulling her down a step.  The back of the girl’s head cracked against the metal of the next stair down.

In the process, Mia had leaned back against the door.  Someone stabbed, scraping her lower back, but the angle, pelvis further forward than head and shoulder, still holding the girl’s leg, meant they couldn’t reach through enough to get any depth.  Sudden pain in her shoulder and at the base of her neck told her that they had shifted to stab her there instead.

The C.O.s on the ground floor began to deal with that crew.  One hurried to re-attach the lock, sealing the door shut.

Mia got two cuts on the forearm before getting a firm grip on Adele’s weapon arm.  Another grip on her neck- she was able to lift the petite girl.

In frame, she reminded Mia of Natalie.

“You four couldn’t set up a better chance than this for Adele?  Or were you trying to get rid of her while convincing her she had a shot?” Mia asked.  Then, to Adele.  “You could have cut my throat while I slept.  You’d have gotten further, and you’d be in the same position you are now.”

“Should’ve.”

Mia told herself not to strangle.  Instead, hauling, she pulled Adele to her feet, and walked her up the stairs.

Adele struggled, kneed Mia, scuffing legs with flip-flops, and clawed with her one free hand, while Mia struggled to limit the amount of clawing by holding onto and pulling on her sleeve.  She ended up having to hold Adele down against the stairs, instead of carrying her.

Until a C.O., coming from the far end of the upstairs catwalk, intervened.  Mia waited until they’d taken the blade, then released the girl.

“Solitary, all six of them.”

“Seven,” another C.O. said.  They had a friend block me from getting here.  We can divide some of them into cells.”

Not very solitary, is it?

“I was walking to the library.  I didn’t-”

“No.  Solitary, until we know what’s going on, and why.”

Mia stepped back, hands raised, nodding, breathing hard, still bleeding in several places.  “Infirmary first?”

Solitary first.

They took her into a cell that was smaller than the one she had spent the last month calling home, but more spacious without three other people living in it.  No toilet, just a metal door, concrete painted in thick, nauseating yellow, and a stained mattress with a sheet.

They brought the infirmary to her, bandaged what was bleeding, asked their questions, and then shut the door, while they figured things out.

The biggest issue with prison was the lack of space to think.  Too many people, too much demanding her wariness and attention.  It was boring, but of an unpleasant sort, that meant she couldn’t think or plan.

Hours stretched on.  A tray with food and water was pushed through the slot near the ground.

“Can you let me know if-”

The slot closed.  The person who was delivering the food moved on.

She focused her anxieties elsewhere.  The door had a lip at the edges she could get her fingers over.  There was a vent close to the ceiling.

It was a kind of wide pull-up, with one hand slightly higher than the other.  But it was something.  Ten reps.  Drop to the floor.  Rest, focus on awareness of her own body, potential injury.  Her fingertips had been abraded by sticking them through the wiring of the vent.

Then ten more reps.  A rest.  Ten more reps.

Then the same thing, but backwards.  Leg lifts, push-ups, planking for the core exercise, squats.

It had to be nighttime, but she couldn’t tell.  She washed at the inset sink, then slept.

When the tray came through for the morning, it was empty.  Her shouts were answered with a laugh.

It would be a few days.

⯁

She’d never had to confront the state of things more than when she was an inmate under the state.

Her fingertips were bleeding again.  She’d cut them, using the vent and metal doorframe to exercise, and they were scarring over, but it was inconsistent.

“Hurst!  Move your ass!”

She picked up the arms of the wheelbarrow.

In the end, it had been five days in solitary, while they took their time investigating the issue.  Twice, she’d been visited and asked the same questions, sometimes from slightly different angles, or with details changed.  She’d received only half her meals, and that had gotten to her more than she liked to admit.  She’d focused on her mind palaces, and, exhausted from the lack of stimulation, her mind kept going back to Ripley, and conversations they’d had.

Now she was outside, out in the open, hauling fencing material.  In her case, loads of gravel.  She had to be wary again, aware of individual prisoners, aware that trouble could come from any direction, including behind her, but checking over her shoulder every five seconds made her look weak, and made her a target. She reserved her energy and focus for those who had shovels, and mentally mapped out which prisoner belonged to which group.

It was cold out, maybe sixty degrees, and the uniforms they’d been provided were insufficient.  Not so bad she was freezing, but as hours ticked on and she was doing the labor, her joints hurt, and old injuries reminded her of the past.

The mentality from the government in power was that there was justice in this, in any suffering.  They made prisoners sweat in the heat and freeze in the cold, and would leave them outside without masks if the smoke was bad.  So she suffered.  The cold was as bad as either of the other two.

The whistle blew, and everyone filed inside.

“Hurst.  Visitor,” a C.O. told her, as she passed.

“Thank you.”

She wanted to ask who, but she doubted she’d get an answer, and some of her focus was reserved for watching out for trouble.  If she’d get in trouble anyway, she’d have to be more brutal with the next person to come at her.  She might pay for it in the short term, but she could discourage people later.

When the line of prisoners reached the right point of the hallway, she joined those who were going to the visitor’s area, approaching the plexiglass enclosed stall with one C.O. within, and a gate beside it.  They checked her name and number, then let her through.

The area for visitors was cafeteria-like, and from the smell of it, and the traces of food that hadn’t yet been cleaned up, was an overflow area for the prisoners.  Mia smiled as she saw the face at one table.  It gave her a halfhearted smile back.

“What name are you going by?” she asked.

“Gio.”

Gio looked healthy.  Slightly tanned, black hair tied back into a loose ponytail.  She’d lost a little weight, but still had those wide hips.  Gio had worn a nice dress-style top that came a fair way down, with jeans, with crimping at the collar and some flourish around the shoulders and sleeves, which suited her nicely.  She did know her way around fashion.  Mia was proud.

Mia could smell something that was a bit like mowed grass and earth.

Gio.

“Back to that.  Okay.  I love the top.”

“Thank you.  I love it too.”

“I was worried about you.”

Gio gave her that halfhearted smile back.  “I’m okay.  I’m great, even.”

“Can I ask where you are?  Where did you go?  The roommate?”

“No.  If I’m being entirely honest, that wasn’t ever a plan.”

“Oh really?”

“It was cover.  So I could cut ties and move away.”

That stung.  The smile fell off Mia’s face.  “I’m sorry.  That you had to do that.  Was it because you were moving away from the violence, and everything that happened, or because you were moving away from me?  The family?”

Gio frowned, looking like she was considering her response.

“I see.  No need to say it, then.”

“I- it’s a mix.  I know my brother didn’t survive the night you were at the house, rescuing Rip.  It’s hard to get past that.  I know it was Davie’s fault, he set the fire.  I know things were chaotic…”

Gio trailed off.  She briefly met Mia’s eyes, then looked away.

“It was our fault too.  The gas.  We let him know he should get away, we offered our help.  But things got desperate, we were cornered, because Rip wouldn’t leave without Natalie, and we used the gas,” Mia said, quiet.  She shifted position.  “Maybe he couldn’t move that fast.  Maybe he was too pressured by Davie or more a prisoner than it seemed.  I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Gio said.  She paused, frowning.  “It’s hard to get past.”

Falling back to that.

Mia explained, “It was a desperate, ugly fight.  I’m not proud, I didn’t want it.  I don’t fault you for moving away, or having hard feelings about it.  I want you happy.”

“I… think you do.  But I also I think you’re possessive,” Gio said.  “Sorry, I’m saying this awkwardly, but I recited pieces of it to myself in my head for a while, before coming, and it’s hard to get straight.  You’re good to- I don’t want to say ‘your possessions’.  That’s not right.”

“No.”

“Those you’re possessive of.  Which included me.  You jumped straight to assuming the role of parent.  It was weird.”

Mia shook her head a little.  “I didn’t mean to… convey that.  To weird you out.  I think I wanted to jump straight into the new identity, so there was less chance Rip and Tyr overheard anything unusual.  I wish you’d told me, I could have toned it back.”

“You’re scary.  Scary enough it’s hard to tell you things.”

Mia frowned.  Her hands were still stiff from the outside work, and she, hands clasped together, cracked knuckles.  After a few seconds, she nodded.  “If I am, I didn’t want to be scary to you.  I wanted to be scary for you.”

Gio fell quiet.

“I have Tyr,” Gio mentioned.

Mia sat up a bit.  “Carson mentioned that, in a message to me.”

“We’re with the horse piss ranchers.  He’s a little cowboy now.  He loves it all.  Obviously, he misses you, he has a hard time with that.  I don’t know if you have plans to… resolve any of this.  To get out, come get Tyr anytime soon.”

Mia nodded slowly.  She smiled.

Except, for all that the image of Tyr as a little cowboy made her smile, Gio was studying her carefully.  When Mia didn’t say anything, Gio said, “Ripley’s with Sean.  She and Natalie had a fight.  Ripley’s saying she won’t see Natalie until Natalie chills out.  Which everyone is interpreting as a bit of a break, Natalie gets therapy, and then they’ll try again.”

“Okay.  Good, I think?”

“Are you planning on getting out?” Gio asked.

Still pushing along those lines.

“It would be nice,” Mia said.  She looked at her damaged fingertips.

“What happened there?”

“Solitary.  Trying to stay fit and while away the hours.”

“They mentioned you were in when I last called.  I saw Carson a couple weeks ago, I took a few days to think, then tried to reach you, but they said you weren’t available, you’d gotten in a fight.  That you’d be out sometime this past weekend.  I asked what day had the least visitors, they said a Tuesday.  So here I am.”

So today was a Tuesday.  Okay.

A couple was bickering at a table across the room, loud.  Some heads turned.

Gio was frowning, and looked down at her hands.  She had a bit of dirt under one nail.  She picked it out, then brushed it off the table.

The argument escalated.  A guard walked over.

“I thought there’d be booths, each of us with a phone, plexiglass between us?”

“Budget cuts.  And they really don’t care that much about my well being.  Or yours.”

“Spook.”

The C.O.s separated the couple.  One shown the door, the other directed back to her cell.  They shouted, and the nature of the space made the shouting feel a bit impotent.

Mia wasn’t sure how to resume the conversation.  Gio didn’t seem to either.  Mia could smell old ketchup, from when this space had been used as a lunchroom.  An odor she despised.

The door banged as the argumentative woman was escorted out.  The guy carried on shouting from the hallway.

It was Gio who spoke up first.  “I know I don’t have a right to ask, after saying I was leaving, pulling away…”

“You’ve been fair.  It was our failure to help your brother.  If you were mad, or vengeful, I wouldn’t blame you.  I really did try to get him to come with us.”

“I know.  Carson mentioned that.  I was saying, it would be nice, to know if I should, um, look out, I guess.  Can I or should I bond with Tyr?  Or should I assume you’ll show up and try to take him away?  Will you come and want to take me away?”

“If you’re happy where you are, I won’t come for you,” Mia said, leaving the topic of Tyr aside.

“I’m happy where I am,” Gio said.  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what we contribute to the world.  What that gets us.  I like being a helper, providing things people need.  I think that’s important, putting something good out there.  It’s something my dad didn’t do.  He was the opposite.”

“It sounds healthy.”

“It’s hell out there and it’s getting worse.  We need healthy.  We need to do the opposite of what we’re doing.  And maybe what I’m doing is too small to matter, maybe I’m a burden, even, but… I want to feel like I’m moving things the other way.”

“It sounds like you are.  It really does sound good.”

Gio paused, clearly considering her words, then added, “Tyr is happy where he is too.”

“Is there a boy?  Interested in you?  Carson insinuated, but…”

“There’s a boy.  Carson pointed him out a while back, when I first met that group.  His instincts were right.”

“They usually are.  Carson was alright?”

“Not a hundred percent.”

“He’s still sick?”

“Still dealing with side effects of that, I guess.”

“He didn’t mention it to me.”

“I… don’t think he’s the type to?”

“It’s been months,” Mia whispered, mostly to herself.

“Yeah.  I know.  I guess, aside from that, he’s as alright as anyone in prison can be.  Not moving fast but he’s okay.  Happy to talk to me.  I went to him first, a bit like a test run before this.  And I think I understand him better.  I connected with him more.”

Mia didn’t love hearing that, but she could push those feelings down.

“He’s easy to bond with, but I’m surprised you say you understand him.  I was married to him for five years and I find him a bit perplexing, still.”

“Carson and I were talking.  I’m still waiting for the day the mental images and stuff in my head start feeling like a bad dream.  Some days, they feel more real than reality.  I think Ripley and Tyr are wrestling with stuff too.”

Mia nodded.  “Makes sense.”

“And I’m tired of things hanging over my head.  You’re one of those things.  Sorry.  I don’t want to worry every day that you’re going to come up and mess up the trust I’m building with these people, or if enemies will come after you, or…”

“I have no strict plans to get out anytime soon.”  No escape plan.

“Carson thought you would have one.”

“That’s his misplaced trust in me, I think.  I… if I’m entirely honest, you were my plan.”

Gio’s eyebrows drew together a bit.  Concern?

Mia explained, checking there weren’t any listening ears close by.  “The process is smooth.  I can give you some names, already on the app, you can contact them, give them our basic information.  The rest falls into place.  Fund them, I’ll pay you back, you can take the full amount in that account as payment and a parting gift.  You can drop off Tyr for Carson and I, we’ll take him and go.  No pain, no hassle, no collateral damage.”

Gio shook her head slightly, eyes on the table.

“You’d have to stay off the radar for a short while.  But hopefully seven figures would help make that easier to bear?  I know money can’t replace your brother-”

“I never had him.  As a brother.  We… barely bonded.  It’s not that.”

“Then… not your brother, but the opportunity to know him, in a world after Davie.  Unless Davie is why you’re upset?  I understand those things can be complicated.”

“No.  No, that, at least, isn’t too complicated.  That was good.  Was it really Natalie?  That wasn’t cover for you or… something?”

Mia nodded.  “I have to assume it was Natalie.”

“Huh.”

Mia really wanted to push, to say something, but she made herself stop.  Gave Gio the space.

Gio ventured, “If something messy happened, like you getting out, or taking Tyr, the horse piss ranchers would be upset.  Or if I helped you get out, and it led trouble to the rancher’s doorstep.  I might lose everything I’m finally getting and building,” Gio said.  “I don’t think I can help you get out.”

That didn’t feel like the whole reason.

“I’ve spent the last few months wondering about things.  Playing things back in my head, over and over,” Gio said.

“Me too.”

“And I’m here to… I guess-”

“Make sure none of that is hanging over your head?”

“Um, yeah,” Gio said.  She sighed.  “But also to explain my reasoning.  And to try to figure out parts that don’t make enough sense.”

“Ask.”

“The big one right now is… you’re so good at so much of this.  Why… why are you here?  You’re more careful than that.”

Mia rubbed her knuckles again, with fingertips that were scarring and scabbed over.

“With no escape plan?” Gio pressed.

Besides you, but you’re ignoring that.  “It made sense in the moment.  I think, without Ben and Rider being there, I’d have been fine.”

“But-”

“I know,” Mia replied, pre-emptively.

“It wasn’t a big leap to think they’d be looking out.”

“I know,” Mia reaffirmed.  She leaned over the table, resting on her forearms.  “A quiet part of me might have wanted to get caught.”

Gio studied her face, glanced down at Mia’s hands.

Mia explained, “I don’t think I wanted this, exactly.  But Ripley was pulling away, bit by bit.  You were nine tenths of the way out the door.  It used to be, a while back, I’d get anxiety that was so bad I couldn’t lie still in bed and I’d have to get up and pace.  I’d feel it like a low flame at the back of my brain.  It would twist my stomach, make it hard to breathe.  Especially when Rip was young.”

“I felt a bit like that living with my dad.  Especially with the Addi situation.  Not those exact feelings.”

“I know.  I think that might have been part of why I loved you so easily.  I started to feel that again.  My world slowly falling apart.  Carson wasn’t healing, I didn’t have work, Ripley was barely around.  You weren’t.”

Gio was quiet.

Mia explained, “I spent a while with a lot of space to think.  In solitary, especially.  Which was because of self defense, to be clear.”

“Yeah,” Gio replied.

“I might have subconsciously wanted to get caught, not for this, not to be punished, but because, that if I could lay it out there, make my case, people would be on my side.  Should be?  Maybe then I’d lose the inherent disadvantage that comes with being in my position?”

“Was that why you went after the Civil Warriors?  Because nobody except other Civil Warriors are on their side?”

“Maybe that would even the scales?  I don’t know.  That makes sense.  Like I said, I’m not sure it was that conscious a thing.  It felt like it should be true.  That people would agree kids were better off with me.”

“Like, in front of a jury?”

“Or arresting officers, or even Ben, somehow, or… I don’t know.  Really truly-”

“With the way you bombed a school?  With-?”

“Gio,” Mia cut Gio off.  “It wasn’t a plan.  It was a sentiment.  That I had to make a move fast, because Natalie was about to scuttle everything.  Then, if I got caught, then it seemed as if, okay, I should be able to explain.  That I gave them a better life.”

“I was talking to someone at the ranch.  About the kidnappings.  They compared it to kids getting taken from Indian parents to residential schools, or to be adopted.”

“I didn’t take them because they belonged to a group or culture.  I took Rip because her mom was horribly insufficient.  Your dad and Tyr’s parents were terrible monsters.  Breelyn and Jadelyn’s parents were insufficient and monsters.”

“It’s still sketchy, some of the same mentality, some of the same ideas, that you should be able to take someone’s children because you’re better?  That sense of superiority?”

“Which is wrong when it’s applied as a blanket to a group, but when I’m actually better equipped?”  Mia asked.

“Are you though?”

“Yes?  I’m not saying I’m not flawed, but Rip and Tyr’s parents, your dad, Breelyn and Jadelyn’s parents, they were that bad.”

“It’s complicated,” Gio said.  “Stuff that’s hard to get past.  Hard to take in.”

Mia was frustrated.  With Ben, too, she’d laid it out as plain facts.  She’d gotten a fallback sort of argument there, too.

She tried not to let that frustration show.

Mia took a deep breath.  “In the end, it wasn’t a fair fight.  They didn’t even come after me for Rip.  Part of Natalie’s plan to keep the media from jumping on that, was she wouldn’t pursue me for that, I guess.”

“I know.  I saw.  Fraud and the kidnapping of the Civil Warrior kids.  Media hasn’t caught on to the Ripley-Tyr connection.  No teachers have called to tip them off.  If there’s even anyone to call, like that, or if they know about you and the case.  Things are a mess right now.”

“And they shouldn’t.  Media shouldn’t, teachers shouldn’t.  I’d rot here before I let them ruin Rip’s life.  Natalie has her faults too, but she…. handled that well.  But by doing it that way, Ripley and Tyr off the table, I couldn’t… couldn’t make the arguments, or reveal the information about the timing and discrepancies with the police report.  Things Ben had written down, even, I saw when Carson and I looked through his office.”

Gio nodded.  “Ben was threatening to sue.”

Mia raised her eyebrows.  Then she lowered them.  “Suing Natalie.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think that’s happening.”

“No.  But it came up.  He put years of work into this.  Now he can’t make his documentary.  He’s bitter.”

Mia cracked her knuckles.

Natalie had played the man.  Mia doubted it had been the original plan, but after all of this…

“Revenge for being so shortsighted with the judge, the Cavalcantis, and stirring up the Civil Warrior business?” Mia asked.

“Maybe.  I think it’s more that Ripley comes before Ben, in Natalie’s priorities.  So she’s protecting Ripley.”

Mia sighed.

“I feel like I’m the person best positioned to know the most,” Gio said.  “While not being stuck in the middle of it.  On the outside looking in, a bit.”

“That’s very possible.”

“I guess that’s my worry, a bit?  That things shift and I go from being someone who’s mostly objective and watching from the sidelines, to being in the crosshairs?  I don’t want to be in the crosshairs, I had my taste of that with Addi.”

Mia studied Gio’s expression.  With measured words, she asked, “Why would you be in the crosshairs?”

“We’re moving,” Gio said.  “Not because of you.  Because the situation’s bad.  The Civil Warriors were emboldened after the kidnapping attempt, they haven’t lost any steam since.”

“They like being the victims and the aggressor at the same time.  Where are you moving?”

“Away,” Gio said.  “I know you can probably find us.  Especially if I keep the phone.  But I still don’t want to like, put it out there.”

“You don’t want to tell me?”

“I don’t want to be on your bad side either.  So… it gets complicated, if you want Tyr, or if you expect certain things from me.”

Mia frowned. “He’s my son.”

“You should still leave him where he is.  On the ranch, with me.  He’s got a group of people who adore him and are acting like parents.  A village.  I’ll do my best to be family to him.”

“He’s my son, Gio.  His parents were monsters.”

Gio’s forehead creased.  “How would I know if that’s the truth?”

“Because I’m telling you. Because I’ve always been honest with you, even when it cost me.”

“Even if you were- even if, he’s stable.  That matters a lot.  He’s cared for, cared about, he’s doing great.  He’s got a whole wilderness.”

“That’s insane,” Mia told the girl.

Gio gave Mia a long look, then said, “I don’t think you should uproot Ripley from the new life she’s building, either.”

“There’s no way she’s happier with Sean-”

“I’m not saying that.”

“And Natalie?”

“I”m not saying that either.”

“So stability is more important than her happiness?” Mia asked, heated now.

“No, I’m not saying that either.  But I talked to Ripley.  I think she’s still wrapping her head around you.  More honestly, with the therapist now, because you were arrested, she can talk about stuff.  She’s taking a break from Natalie, so she doesn’t have that-”

“Whispering in her ear?”

“More like… energy.  Sean goes more with the flow.  Acts like you don’t exist.  But Ripley’s thinking about things and I think, if you show up, you won’t like her reactions.  She’d ask you for space, the same way.  You’d push her away, instead of bringing her close.”

Mia’s hand shook a little, until she gripped it hard in the other.

A part of her wasn’t surprised.

“Unless you locked her in a basement, like the one we had Addi in, but-”

“That’s not me.”

“I know.  Yeah.”

Another part of her felt like it had been lost to something bottomless, so cold it numbed.

Gio looked scared.

The girl spoke up, “Can you give me some feedback?  Some clue about what you’re thinking or feeling?  Are you mad?  Are we enemies?”

Mia could remember that feeling of loss, back when she was a child, recovering from the partial amnesia.  The disconnection from everything she’d been and had before.  The loss of ability.  Huge chunks of herself.

This felt like that.

“Not enemies,” Mia said, her voice soft.

“Do we have time?  I feel like there’s some deadline, and they’re going to call an end to the visits and send me home?  It always happens so fast in the movies.”

“Two and a half hours maximum for this visiting window,” Mia replied.

“Ah,” Gio said.  She sounded a bit disappointed.  Maybe she’d wanted a way out.

“Gio,” Mia said.  She reached across the table, laying her hand over Gio’s.  Gio flinched a bit.  “I love you.  I might not have been your family, but you were mine, for a little while.  I’m not your enemy, and I’m not a good enough liar to be angry and hide it.”

“You’re harder to interpret than you think you are.  You give off this vibe, like you’re about to lunge across the table and tear my head off.  Especially now.”

“I’m hurt.  Worried.”

“Okay,” Gio said.  Still on guard, still ready to pull her hand away from Mia’s, if something moved too fast.

“You’re here to check I’m not coming after them?”

Gio shrugged a bit.  She didn’t look happy.  “Yeah.  Or me.  Or doing anything for revenge against someone.  I don’t want to feel like- like some bomb is going to go off, and bring a lot of chaos with it.  Or that you’ll show up all of a sudden.”

“You won’t help me get out?  There’s no way to convince you?”

“No.”

Mia withdrew her hand.  She wanted to sit back, or get up and pace, but the benches had no backs, and the C.O.s wouldn’t let her pace.

“I want to put good things out into the world.  And I don’t think you’re a good thing.”

“I was a good thing for you, wasn’t I?”

“You saved me.  If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be in my father’s basement, butchered, waiting to die.”

“Is it because of your brother?  Because-”

“No.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“I think I have a pretty objective view of everything, while still knowing most of the people who were part of this.  And I don’t think you’re right.  I don’t think people are happier, overall, if I do something to get you out, or if you get out and you find the kids.”

Mia realized she was clenching a fist and unclenched it.

Gio looked so scared, now.

What was she supposed to say?

She’d wondered if she’d been driven by some desire for this all to be some kind of referendum on the subject of the kids, and she hadn’t even convinced Gio?

Mia had to remind herself to unclench her fist again.  Her hand shook a bit, and when she tangled fingers together for a second in an effort to pin them down and get them to be still, her joints hurt all over again.

“I thought I did a good job with Rip and Tyr.  Putting them out as positives in the world.”

“You did okay.  They’re great.  They get some credit for that.”

“But that’s not enough?”

“Was what I did to Addi more you than my dad?” Gio asked.

“Were we together that long, at that point?” Mia asked.

“I don’t know.  But I think about it and he was brutal, he was cruel, but it was calculated.  What I think I felt and did to Addi seemed a lot more like the way you went after some people who were in your way, who you were mad at…”  Gio looked more nervous.  But she shook her head.  “The person I agree with the most might be Natalie.  The way I lost my mom, how dark things became, after, I think I understand her.  If she figures stuff out, gets that therapy, I… I’m pretty sure I’m on her side.”

Mia couldn’t completely hide her expression.  The hurt.  She looked at the wall, instead, studying it.  “You didn’t know her.”

“No.  No, you’re right.  Maybe that makes it easier.”

Mia shook her head slightly, and she was tense enough the gesture was tight.

She hadn’t expected this conversation to go this way.

“Is that it, then?” Gio asked, anxious.  Then, not for the first time, she said, “You’re still really hard to read.”

“You can go if you want to go.  You’re safe.  I’m willing to fight to protect my kids, but- I’m not the type to go after someone like that.  If I was, I would have gone after Natalie well before she showed up in Camrose.”

“Things change.”

“I’m not evil,” Mia said, meeting Gio’s eyes.

Whatever Gio saw there made her look away.

“Look after Tyr, then.  And Rip.”

“That’s the plan,” Gio said, very quietly.

“I’ll see you all in twenty years.  Less with good behavior.”

“Okay.”

Gio looked ready to run.  Mia didn’t want her to.

“Gio.  The app, if you go to the grid layout, has a box in the bottom right, no icon.  Press your finger down over it,” Mia said.  “The password is Four boys, comma, three girls, comma, in the treehouse.  No spaces.  Capitalize every word.  No numbers as letters, a long character string is good enough.”

“I already know.”

Mia looked up from the phone to Gio.

“I hired someone to check what was on the phone and look at the source.  I wanted to, before I made any plans to move.  We found there was more data, then worked out a way in.  I don’t know the particulars.”

“Okay.  That’s smart, checking.  Good thinking.”

“Yeah?  I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, or if I should tamper.”

“This isn’t leverage, it’s not a threat.  When you started pulling away, I saw you were looking her up.”

“I tried to do that at the library, when you didn’t have access,” Gio murmured.  “One night, I ctrl-clicked the wrong bookmark folder, instead of clicking a link.  Opened everything in that folder.  I tried to stop it, but I guess it triggered some flag.”

“Yeah.”  That hadn’t been it, but it wasn’t worth pointing out that Mia had been looking over things.  Mia explained, “I intended to find her, then let you know when I knew enough.  I didn’t want to get your hopes up and then disappoint.  With the unlock there, you should have access to more resources.  Be very careful.  Some of our resources and accounts got found or flagged, when they investigated me for the identity fraud.  Some is illegal and needs a careful hand.  Do your research before using any of it.  I’d say to contact me, but…”

Gio met Mia’s eyes.

“This is it, is it?”  Mia asked.  “At least until I’m officially out?”

“Can it be it, without the second part?  Can you leave them be?  All of us?”

“Could you leave your birth mother?” Mia asked.  “Don’t- that came off wrong.”

Gio paused, then nodded, stiff.

“What I made for you originally was sanitized and simplified, so it would be accessible.  You now have access to the rest.”

Gio stared at the screen.

“Don’t accidentally click anything,” Mia said, with a lighter tone that felt surreal, considering her loss, here.

“I’m not sure I want to touch any of this.”

“That’s a good instinct.  Still, it’s options, if you get into trouble.  As part of that, you should be able to find the folder with what I was able to find on your other mother.  I think she used someone a lot like me, to hide.  There isn’t a lot.  But it’s a lot more than you had.  If I ever get out, I can help chase that down.  I promise that’s not leverage or me trying to manipulate you.”

Gio put the phone down.  Her hands were showing her nervousness, now.  Or she was feeling something big, after that.

“It’s goodbye, then?” Mia asked, fighting to keep her voice under control, so it wouldn’t crack.

“Please don’t come for them.  Leave us alone.”

Mia was silent for what felt like minutes.  It wasn’t that long.  It was like the solitary confinement, in how time distorted, maybe.  Maybe it was the same thing, but without the four walls.  Being alone.

Someone guffawed a few tables away, oblivious.

“Please,” Gio said.

Mia wanted to cry, or throw a table at the guffawing stranger.

“Have Ripley reach out when she gets to be your age.  A visit would be nice.  I’ll take a phone call.  She deserves closure, or continuation.  I’d like another chance.  Tyr too.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve done well.  If you get stuck in the search for your mom, you could reach out.”

“I don’t think I’m going to.  Sorry.”

Mia was fighting with herself, trying not to react in a Natalie way, or show the emotions she was feeling and ruin what little remained in the process.

“Okay.  You did a good job, finding the ranchers.  It sounds good for Tyr.  Make sure he gets an education.”

“Okay.”

“I know coming couldn’t have been easy.”

“No.”

The answers were getting smaller.

“Good luck finding your mother.”

“Thank you.”

Mia wanted to offer a hug, but she wasn’t sure she could avoid breaking down if Gio said no.

“Goodbye then.”

If Gio said something, it might have been inaudible, with the louder conversations in the room, and that lingering ringing in Mia’s ear from the gunshot.  It might have been that Mia’s focus was elsewhere, to the extent it was like a small blackout.  It might have been that Gio said nothing at all.

Gio went around the corner, and then she was gone.

Mia took a second, until a C.O. started to approach.  She submitted to the pat-down, then made her way back through the gate, signing her name.  It all felt surreal, in that same way Gio had described.

Back to her block.  She reminded herself to be wary, but it was hard to remember why she was supposed to care that much about her own well being.

Up that spiral staircase.  She wanted to lie down.  Even if her cell had two kinds of stink to it.

Someone got in her way.  Angel was a woman with a doughy face and a broken nose that had a red mark across the bridge.  One of the four who’d held the door shut.  The only one who had remained in this block.  The biggest of that group.  Taller than Mia, as it happened, but not as muscular.

People saw the possible confrontation and jeered from afar.

This was a hell of noise and people.  The commotion around this place played into the buzz of a headache.

No, she couldn’t tolerate this after all.

Mia didn’t slow down.  Angel pulled her chin back, chest and stomach pushed forward, to bump Mia, not letting her pass.  Angel’s friends -she’d lost her gang, but she still had some friends- jeered.

Mia reached down, one hand at the Angel’s thigh, and hauled.

Angel elbowed her in the head, hard.  The ringing in Mia’s ears doubled in volume, after. The second elbow was slightly off target.  Angel aborted it early to grab for the railing.

Didn’t matter.  Angel went over the railing of the second floor cells, virtually upside down as she passed the railing.  The angle of things and the speed with which she passed ripped her hand away from the railing.  Too lax, too late.

A fifteen foot head first Fall onto concrete.

⯁

The sound was deafening in the small room with the nauseating yellow paint.  They repainted regularly, because bored inmates scratched out messages into the paint, but traces lingered.

Solitary.  Alone.

Much longer this time, she had to assume.

She couldn’t help but replay the conversation in her head, over and over again.

Had there been a better way to handle it?

Was it better to be cruel?  To force Gio’s hand?

That wasn’t what she wanted.  She didn’t want to get her kids back through cruelty.

She paced.

She’d lost them.

She’d lost everything.

It still didn’t feel as though she’d done anything particularly wrong at any point.

She paced.

What were her options?

She paced.

Hours passed, without a clock to count them by.  She rubbed her shoulder.  She’d fucked it up again, lifting too much weight at an awkward angle.  Maybe a torn muscle.

The throbbing pain made her feel connected to Ripley, with the phantom pains.  She hadn’t asked how those were going, after the past few months.  If Sean was looking after it.  Now it bothered her that she didn’t know, wouldn’t know.

Her ears rang incessantly.  The more aware she was of it, the louder it got.  She wondered if she had a concussion, from the elbow.

She didn’t want to sleep, if that was the case.

Couldn’t exercise as she had before, with her arm like this.

In her anxiety, as time passed, she picked at the scabs in her fingertips.  One started bleeding freely.

Hours passed.  She paced.

Was that too much blood?  Was she not getting sufficient vitamins?  Protein?

As if in answer to that question, food arrived.  But the person who brought the food told Adele and the ringleader of the four who’d held the door, who were in another cell further down the hall, that Mia was there.

That Angel had gone over the railing.

They shouted, cursing her out, and it was ignorable, at first, but they didn’t let up.

Mia remained where she was, forearms against the wall, face buried against them, as if pinning her arm in place with her face could alleviate the arm’s weight on her shoulder  and help.  It didn’t.

But an interminable amount of time passed.

There was no time here.  Her thoughts were too scattered, her heart too hurt, for the days to be countable.  The mind palace she’d so painstakingly built- built for Ripley and Tyr, it had been left as rubble.  ‘Today is meal twelve, day four, tomorrow is day five, meals thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen’ became confused, four and five crowding together, losing meaning, even threatening to jumble with the twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.  Then, when it all came unstuck, she wasn’t sure if it was day four or five anymore.

Day fifteen.

The lights went out.  Pitch darkness.  Others all up and down the hall hooted and jeered, laughed.

There was something nervous in their voices, as they did it.

Days nine, ten, eleven.

She assumed.  She had to assume, because there was no window, and there were zero meals.

The C.O.s didn’t come.  Someone found a way to burn something in their cell, setting off a fire alarm that synced up with the ringing in Mia’s ears, filling the entire space with smoke.

Someone else flooded their cell. Mia wondered if they were trying to staunch the smoke, or create another sort of emergency that might draw attention.

The water even reached Mia’s cell.  Less than an inch deep.

Day twelve.  Maybe.  Mia drank water, and tried not to move much, so she wouldn’t be so hungry.

“Who’s down here?  Is this fucking toilet water?” a woman called out.

It wasn’t a C.O.  Something about her tone.

“Sound off!  Names!”

“Perpetua Casa-fucking-Nova!”

“Adele Cerda!”

“Pat Maher.”

“Hey, girl.  I was told to look for you, Pat.”

Mia leaned into the door to have a better angle to see through the slot.

She could see a glimpse of a flashlight beam reflecting off water.

“What happened?” Mia asked.  “The power’s been out.”

“We’re under new leadership.  Civil Warriors.”

“Fuck yeah,” Pat said.

“What happened?  Anything big?” Mia asked, trying to stay calm.

“Same as before, but bigger.  A lot of cowards left.  Patriots stayed.”

Mia rested her forehead against the metal.

“You couldn’t come sooner?”

“Shit went crazy.  There were some special ops types in the prison, undercover investigating some human trafficker on the sly.  Three of them took out twenty of us before we locked them in and shut off the water there for a couple days.”

None of that mattered.

Gio would be gone, with Tyr.  Ripley was with Sean, who wasn’t local.  But…

“How big is this?” Mia asked.  “This win?”

“What’s your name?”

“Sheila Hardy,” Mia replied.

“That’s not Sheila anything.  That’s Mia Hurst.”  Adele.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“I’ll tell you,” Adele said.

“Yeah, sure.”

Mia could hear the doors opening, the splashes of footfalls.  A whoop from someone who might’ve been Adele.

“She’s not a friend of ours,” Pat said.

“Oh really?  Do we do anything about it?”

“I say we leave her.”

“I have money,” Mia said.  “I get out, I can send it to you.”

“With a computer?”

“Yeah.  With a computer.  Or a bank.”

“You’re going to have trouble doing that.”

“Maybe, but isn’t it worth trying?” Mia asked.

No response.  She heard the footfalls.  The splashes.

Getting further away.

“Hey!” she raised her voice, banging on the metal.

Without even a distant flashlight beam, it was darkness again.

They won.  I could have stopped them.

How many times had she given them incremental advantages against Cavalcantis, government?  Natalie had wondered out loud about them.  Gio had said she’d emboldened them, if anything.

How far did this go?  Did this reach her kids?

The fire alarm had worn itself out.  In the newfound silence, however, with nothing to compare it against, the ringing in her ears was like a looping sound that seemed to continually get louder.  Worse than the fire alarm.

The other cells along the hallway empty and utterly silent.

She lifted herself up, even with an injured shoulder, to try to get at the vent.  It took maybe three hours, maybe a whole day.  She couldn’t tell.  She couldn’t see anything, heard little, fumbled around.  The water from her inset sink had a mineral taste to it.

But she got the vent cover off.

She tore her fingertips to shreds on the metal mesh from the vent.  Eventually, she got what felt like a good length, twined together.  It was slick with her bloody hands, and she had to be careful, because the water smelled brackish and filthy, so she couldn’t drop it.  She wouldn’t be able to dip her hands into that to fish it out.

The lock wouldn’t give.

The wire from the mesh bent until it was breaking apart.  She didn’t trust it in the lock.  If it got stuck, she wouldn’t get it out.

She had no other resources.  Carson, maybe, but would he even find her here, if he was able?  Would he know to look for her here?  Or would he assume she’d gone for the kids?  Was he healthy enough?

Would anyone come, if most of the prison had evacuated?  Would the assumption be that nobody was left behind?

They’re okay, Mia told herself, in the silence and the darkness.  The outside had to be noise and chaos, but there was no way to know.  The kids are okay, they’re capable.  They have skills.

Skills didn’t matter that much.  If the special ops people were struggling.

They had people.  They’d built something.  Ripley had Devon, Blair, her friends, and their families.  She had Sean… Mia wasn’t sure how much that mattered, But Gio hadn’t suggested Sean was especially disappointing.  Tyr would have the ranchers, and Gio.

Mia sat in shallow water, fingers bent, tips bloody, cut up to some extent she couldn’t even see, throbbing, forearms resting against knees so her arms wouldn’t fall.

What had she built?  What lasting ties?  What bridges remained unburnt enough that someone would cross them and find her?

Hours or days passed.  She couldn’t know.  She was probably a terrifying sight to anyone who might find her.  She couldn’t know.

She’d made and sealed a special kind of torment for herself, here.  If she was right in what she’d told Gio, she’d wanted it.  A judgment.  And she’d gotten it.  Now, as she forced herself to reconcile with it, whether she actually was a monster, she was left to wonder if she was again changing to match her environment.  Silence and darkness surrounded her.  Within her body, pain, anxiety, alarm, ringing, old aches, and chills filled her with unbearable sorts of stimuli and noise.  Stimuli and noise that, she could only imagine, matched the world on the outside.  She couldn’t know for sure.

She didn’t know if her kids were her kids anymore, whatever measure she used to judge that.

When she heard the footsteps, splashing down the hallway, she couldn’t know if she imagined them.  She couldn’t know the day.  Or who it was.

In all of that doubt and wondering, there wasn’t an iota of peace, or a single place to find a moment of calm, for her thoughts to rest easy.

No.

She heard the key rasp in the lock, and the click of the latch.

She was so exhausted from simply sitting that she couldn’t even raise her head on the first try.

She knew one thing, quiet and clear, now, after so much reflection in this darkness, to a soundtrack of terrible noise in her body, silence on the outside of it.

The door opened slowly, with the resistance of water and the pulp of the foam mattress that had disintegrated in water.  Metal from the edge of the vent that she’d torn out scraped against concrete.

Once she was done squinting against the glare of the flashlight, she met the bottleglass green eyes of the man who held it.

She was a monster, and she was capable of doing a terrible amount of damage to people.  She’d come to terms with that, now.

I wouldn’t have let me out.

---

Previous Chapter

End

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

---

The restlessness and anxiety dogged Mia.

It was done.  It was over.  Things were settling.  The people who had needed to live had lived.

They had an apartment.  It was nice, all open space, except for the bedrooms and bathrooms.  It was secure.  They’d had a proxy rent it for them, and had given false information.  Her old troves of data were too dangerous to use, but the root level access she still had to the hospital databases were still there.  She’d accessed them from a parking lot, mindful of cameras, using the free wi-fi of a coffee shop.  For something as surface level as personal information for an apartment rental, it sufficed.  The only way it could go bad is if the landlords knew the deceased, or if the intrusion into the hospital database was detected and they put out an alert.  Mia’s safeguards would tell her the second the alert went out.

She watched the police going about their business.  The police were running with reduced staff.  There were sixty-five officers in Camrose, split across three major areas – the northwest end, the southeast end, and the outskirts, with the police at the outskirts liaising with the parks service.  Thirty, twenty-four, and eleven officers, respectively.  Or twelve, eight, and five cars.  One to two officers in a vehicle, some didn’t leave the station.

They’d resumed activity after the strike had been called off, and were trying to restore peace.  She’d had six weeks now to gather data.  She and Carson were staying off the streets, for the most part, but when the coast was clear, she did leave to pick up Ripley, and she did leave to slip trackers into the undercarriage of cars.

Five times, she’d taken advantage of opportunity.  Three times, she had made calls, then accessed the car while the officers were distracted.  That was eight out of twelve cars, and she now knew where they were.  Of the remaining four, one was out of service for repairs owing to damage taken in the riots, one was purely on traffic duty and wasn’t a consideration, and the remaining two had been like ghosts, with no detectable activity.  She’d tracked them driving to Ripley’s school, a camera dead zone, planted a camera in a tree that night, and had seen them parked outside as school got out, for the last week.  They had been other places.

She’d identified local detectives, and tracked them now.  She knew their families, their histories, their patterns.  One pair… ghosts.

She didn’t want to track the two police cars or the detectives in any overt way, because if they knew who she was, if Ben and Rider had tipped them off or were doing something behind the scenes, then they’d know to check for it.

Most of the police activity surrounded the civil warriors, and trying to quell the unrest surrounding that.  For some of them, the riots had never ended.  Spray paint appeared overnight with coded and not-so-coded racist and homophobic threats.  Things were broken.  Shops burned.  Ripley’s school had shut down due to bomb threats, and she’d spent a week off school.  Three days, with Mia, Carson, and Tyr.

She kept an eye on other things.  Child services.  Natalie.  She kept an eye out for Ben and Rider, who, by every metric she could measure, had left the state.

She, in her restlessness, not working, living off the funds they’d kept in reserve, stuck at home, rebuilt her knowledge base, with the new paradigms in place.  She was already looking at the Civil Warriors.  Key individuals.  Certain families.  How they moved.  Where the cracks were.  Routines and schedules.  They were the dominant group and they were getting more dominant.

A silent alarm went off in the corner of her display, reminding her to exercise, and she unplugged her laptop, moving it to the face of her treadmill.

Forcing herself to walk as light physiotherapy for her leg.

In the course of moving and turning it on, she woke Carson.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, almost groaning the words.

“Some.  But I’m tired.  My body’s focused on healing.  Like yours is.”

“Mmmm,” he groaned.  “On that note, could you do me a favor, and move the treadmill?”

“Is it too loud?”

“Not that,” he said.  He smiled.  “Turn it around, take off those shorts.  Wear the blue underwear that hugs your behind perfectly.  Let me watch that.  That would heal my beaten, abused body, heal my spirit”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Aw,” he replied, followed with a languid smile.

“I would feel ridiculous, and the kids are getting home from school soon.”

He blinked a few times.

“You slept until the mid-afternoon.”

“Fuck me,” he muttered.  He had to work to sit up.  “I should shower.  I want to hug my kids.  I don’t want to stink.”

“You smell fine.  Good, even.  I napped beside you a little bit ago.”

He shifted position, lifting up his t-shirt.  The bandage was still there, with a yellow-pink patch where fluids had leaked out and soaked it.  His nose wrinkled.  “Pus and rot.”

“It’s in your head.  You smelled horrendous for a few days, but that was weeks ago.”

“I want to shower.”

She helped him to his feet, careful with her own leg.  He accepted her help for the first few uneasy steps, then circled around the treadmill and went into the adjunct bathroom.

He’d had sepsis.  Mia had called the Angel of Death, who hadn’t been very happy to get the call.  But the images Natalie had sent of Davie’s victim off life support had been a kind of currency with the woman.  Enough that she’d come, looking after Carson enough to get him through it.

Then again, through the second round of infection, when the wound hadn’t healed and had started smelling.  The antibiotics she’d used had done a number on him, and his healing had been slow.

Mia wondered a bit if being sick like that, and still being bedridden, was his kryptonite.  If that was why the idea of the smell of sickness and infection had stuck to him as much as it did, to the point he thought he smelled it when it wasn’t there.

“Join me?” he asked.

She glanced at the clock on her computer.

“We’ll be fast,” Carson said.

“A week ago, the first time you asked me, I said I shouldn’t and couldn’t join you in there, with your side, my leg.  Then you faked needing help, got me in there with you.  We broke that rule.  I said you should stay sitting, you didn’t.”

“I’d rather hold onto you than the railing.”  He smiled.

“The second time you asked me, you were making overtures.  I ruled out funny business.  Then we broke that rule.”

“I see it as serious business.”

“The third time, I had things to keep an eye on, to see if they were watching Ripley’s school or where she had therapy.  I said you didn’t need to finish me.  And we broke that rule too.”

“You said it would take ten to fifteen minutes to finish you.  It took just under ten.  And we said we’d use the bench seat, and we didn’t break that rule.”

“We nearly broke the bench seat.  It wobbles now.”

Carson reached over to the shower, and gave the seat that they’d installed in the shower an experimental wiggle.  It did rattle a bit, but it held.  “We should get one for heavier folks.  So it takes both of our weight.  And our activity.”

“That shower took thirty minutes.  I’m telling you now, we have twenty minutes.  You’re hurt and recovering.  We have time for you to wash up, rinse, and then groom at the sink.  Are we going to break that rule?  Are we going to go over time and scandalize our daughter?”

He’d already painstakingly removed his shirt before inviting her to join him, and now he dropped his boxers.  He stood there, still muscular from head to toe, but the muscle and weight he’d lost was noticeable.  He had dark circles under his eyes with a yellow bruising to them.  He was still pretty.

“I love you, and I don’t believe you,” she said.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said.

“Tonight,” she said, which made him smile.  She shut the door.  Then she opened it again.  “I really miss having a shower with nozzles spraying from two directions, so one of us isn’t shivering their asses off.”

“When I am up and more mobile, we can get settled somewhere better and I will build that for you.”

She walked on the treadmill, watching things as school got out and Ripley talked with Devon’s stepdad before getting Tyr from the kindergartener’s playground, and walking over to catch the bus.  The cars were there, further up the street this time, but still in a position to watch things.

Maybe they would say it was because of the explosions.  Even though those explosions hadn’t been primed to do anything except guide the evacuation in one direction.

The anxiety wouldn’t quit.  She wanted to do more, so she did more, she’d expanded her focus out into the Civil Warriors.  She watched the remaining Cavalcantis.  Most had left the area and the state, to consolidate under the banner of the family members and personalities that remained.

If they were gunning for her, there weren’t any signs of it.  She couldn’t rule out that they might hire another professional.

So she’d revived old safeguards and reset old landmines.  She’d made sure that if they dug for her, or started poking around Ripley as a means of getting to her, she’d know about it.

‘Old’ landmines.  As if the bulk of things hadn’t happened across the span of a few days.  As if it was a long time ago that she’d used any of that.  She’d spent Ripley’s entire life planning, anticipating, and so much of it had been spent so fast.  It had almost not been enough.  It had almost fallen apart.

No, that wasn’t right.  It wasn’t right that it had almost fallen apart.

She slipped past Carson as he got out of the shower, stripped, and rinsed off the sweat of the treadmill.  She dried, looking at herself in the mirror, her hair dyed blonde, applied a bit of makeup, then dressed again.  She spent the next few minutes tidying.  She had some new books she knew Ripley would like and obsessed for what felt like five minutes, but was probably less than one, figuring out how to leave the books there so they would look casual, if she should even give her the books right now.  Did it seem artificial?  Was it?

Tyr wouldn’t give it a second thought.  Even being as tough as he was, Tyr had backslid in development by a bit.  Some bed wetting.  Some clinginess, which was almost nice.  That they’d been absent, and then they’d reunited with him, hurt?  Carson being sick?  Scary to a kid.

She had zero idea how Ripley had slept.  Ripley hadn’t shared.

She brought her laptop to the kitchen table, for those last couple minutes, and put music on.  She was wiping the stove when they came in.

“Heyy,” Carson was faster to respond.  Making this easier, because Mia wasn’t sure how to.  He turned his body sideways so Tyr’s running hug didn’t include a headbutt or embrace of the wound site, then reached for Ripley, who hugged him tight, careful of his side.

Ripley came over and hugged Mia, as tight as was possible- one arm and the force of the hug from the prosthetic arm came from the hug.  It was already heavily stylized, so it looked like she was wearing black armor and a black gauntlet on the one arm, with gold trim.  They’d made a project of it.

A very tight hug, that gave Mia twenty different things to worry about.

“Devon’s dad talked to me,” Ripley said, as she broke the hug.

“Yeah?  What about?”

“Just asking what I was doing, checking up on me.  If I’d heard from you.”

“It’s good he cares.”

“I don’t like lying.”

“I know.  Hopefully things settle, and everyone eases up.”

“There are two police cars parked down the road from the school.  There might be more.”

“I know.  I think it might be because of the B-O-M-B,” Mia said.

“That you set?” Ripley asked.

Tyr piped up before Mia could process or address that, “Bomb!”

“Heyy, great job,” Carson said.  He’d settled into a chair.  “That’s a hard one.  Where did you learn that word?”

“From the book you read me!”

“It was in one of the Good Simon books,” Mia noted.

“Fantastic.  I didn’t know you were learning anything while we were doing that,” Carson said, beaming.  “Are you going to be a reader like your sister?”

Ripley was smiling at Tyr’s excitement and the praise Tyr was getting.  Pure love for her brother.  It was had to return to the topic of the school bombing.

“So,” Mia said, careful.  “It’s a rare day you don’t have rehab or therapy.  Afternoon and evening are clear…”

“Sean invited me over.  We’re doing a car thing.  Devon’s coming.  Which is funny because it’s so not his thing.”

The music still played, soft, in the background.

“Is that okay?”

“Perfectly okay.  I’m bummed I don’t get to spend more time with you, of course.  But it’s fine.  It’s good.”

“Are you sure?” Ripley asked.

“Absolutely.  You don’t have to ask if we’re sure or get permission.  But… maybe a little more notice?  So we can make alternative plans?”

“What sort of alternative plans?” Ripley asked.

The shadow of Ripley knowing what they did lingered over that question, as light as it was.  Was she being falsely bright?  Was she even thinking about it?

“Something with Tyr?” Mia asked.  “Maybe a bit of nature.  Something easy for dad.  Anything like a hike has to wait a little while, until after he’s feeling better.”  She was careful to focus on the after.  That was in the childcare books she’d read, while up at night, trying to figure out a way through this.  A child going into surgery was reassured by talk of a future, compared to the child who only heard adults talking about the surgery, everything that had to be done before, up to that moment, with no talk of an after.  Talk of an after would reassure Tyr.

“We could build a bomb,” Carson whispered to Tyr.

Mia’s eyes lingered on Ripley, as Ripley’s head turned.  Watched her expression.  Wondered.

“Baking soda and vinegar bomb?” Carson asked.

Mia watched for a second longer, then looked over.  Tyr had lit up.

“It’s very ooze-y,” Ripley said.

“I want fire.  And a big loud boom!”

“Of course you want fire,” Ripley said.  “You’re a terror.”

“Fire and big booms might have to wait.  But maybe we can figure something out,” Carson said.  “Your mom is a brilliant woman.  Something safe?”

“We can,” she said.  “Maybe an outdoor barbecue?  We could bring a folding chair for Dad, cook burgers, do some safe explosions.  Give you space to run around?”

Ripley’s expression had darkened, her focus on some distant point, past Tyr and Carson.

Because she was missing out?  Or-

The image flashed into Mia’s mind.  The shackle, the folding chairs in that basement.

Idiot.  You idiot.

“I want to make up a game!”

Ripley visibly flinched at the volume she’d been fine at a moment earlier.  She glanced at Mia, as if for reassurance, and there was a second of bewilderment, before a quick smile.  She didn’t flinch away from Mia’s hand as Mia reached over to give her shoulder a reassuring rub.

Carson engaged with Tyr.  “We can bring sports stuff and balls.  That sound fun?  Then if the bugs get bad or we get tired, we can come back and watch a movie?”

“Yes!”

“Volume down two notches,” Mia said.

“Yes.  I know what movie I want to watch, already.”

“Tyr, my man, you have horrendous taste in movies,” Carson said.

“No.  I have great taste.”

“Monstrous, awful, taste.”

“I’m going to get my stuff, grab a warmer sweater, and catch a bus,” Ripley said, while the back-and-forth continued in the background.  She paused.  “I love you guys.”

“I love you so much,” Mia told her.  “Can we spend your next free day together?”

“Yeah,” Ripley said, smiling.  She seemed to like the idea.  There was no sign that she was searching for an excuse or pulling away.  She was being pulled in multiple directions at once, and that was different.

Ripley hesitated before leaving.

“What is it?”

“Blair wants to hang out.  She’s got a boy she likes, so she wants to get clothes and get gussied up, her words, for that person.  I don’t really know about that stuff, I kind of wanted to ask for Valentina’s help with it.”

“I’ll let her know you’re asking.”

“And I don’t know when that’s happening.  Shopping with Blair.”

“Okay.  Like I said before, do what you need to do.  Let me now in advance, if you can.”

“And Natalie said her sister is in town next week.  She wants me there for at least one dinner.”

“Mmmmaybe you spend your next free day with us, and then you go to Natalie’s for dinner, and hang out with Blair after that dinner?  Maybe Natalie would like to take you guys to the mall?  She’s pretty stylish.”

“Maybe that’d be good.  I don’t like being at Natalie’s too long.  It’s a weird energy.”

“Bad weird energy?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.  That’s the sort of talk I should bring to the therapist, not you, so it’s fair,” Ripley replied.  She took a second, then, with fresh energy, as if hitting some internal reset button, said, “That’s a good idea.  Natalie, then Blair.  If we go to the mall I can tell Blair and Natalie’s sister how Natalie held me captive upstairs.”

“Go easy,” Carson said.

“Maybe focus on taking it easy, keeping it copacetic,” Mia added.

“I know.  I am.  Yeah.”

“If you like the idea, that’s great.  Run it by Natalie, then let me know what day it’s happening?”

“Oh,” Ripley said, distracted by the books.  “These are great.  But I already have these two.  Sean took me to the bookstore.  He asked what I needed to make the room at his place mine, in case I stayed, or needed a place to retreat to,and I said-”

“-a bookshelf,” Carson said, at the same time Ripley did.  Mia might have, on another day, but the idea of Ripley staying with Sean had startled her.

She found her bearings, and replied, “Ah, great.  Not a problem.  I can return them.”

“Sorry.  But this third one looks great.”

“No need to apologize.  It’s good.”

“I’m going to go.  I keep delaying.  I do like talking to you guys about stuff.  You get stuff in a way others don’t.  Even my therapist.”

“If you need to change therapists so you can communicate with someone better…” Carson trailed off.

“It’s okay.”

Another quick hug, then Ripley hurried away.

She’s not running away from you, Mia told herself.

Mia called after Ripley

“I know you got a bunch of new sweaters to wear with your overalls this fall, but if you’re going to be elbow-deep in a car engine, maybe wear an old one?”

“Good call.  But I want to look nice-ish.  Tattered sweater chic?  I’ve got sweaters with holes in them.”

“Sure, maybe pair it with nicer overalls!  Those wash easy!” Mia called up, though Ripley was already gone.  To Carson, she said, “Is that a thing?  Are tattered sweaters in fashion?”

“She’s using words like ‘chic’, now,” Carson murmured.  He had Tyr on his knee, watching a video on the laptop, now.  Mia hoped Tyr had climbed up, and that Carson hadn’t lifted.  “I wondered if she and Blair might date, as they got started with that stuff, or if she’d get jealous if Blair dated.  I had the vibe they’d stick within their friend group, at least at as they started dating.  They’re so tightly bound together.”

“Still don’t have a bead on Rip,” Mia murmured back.  “Not seeing any signs of interest in that direction, or any direction.  Let it happen how it happens.”

She refilled Ripley’s water bottle, and had it back in the bag in time for Ripley to come back through the kitchen, wearing a bright yellow sweater with some pronounced gaps and irregularities in the weave, one strap of her overalls connected at the front, black denim with gold threading, like her arm, other strap dangling.  She checked her water, found it full, and flashed a smile at Mia.  A brief one, that faded into some form of anxiety.

“Is this really okay?” Ripley asked.

“It’s great.  Live a full life.  Enjoy the car stuff.”

Ripley smiled.

Then she was gone, bag slung over her shoulder.

There were two days a week where she didn’t have other obligations.  Prosthetic therapy once every two weeks, to learn to use the prosthetic arm, and adjust it.  Doctor’s appointments on weeks she didn’t have the prosthetic therapy, to make sure the stump was healed, and to see what could be done about the phantom pains.  Natalie took her to those.  Regular therapy twice a week, to deal with the events of a month and a half ago.  Sleepovers with Blair and Devon at Blair’s or Devon’s on Saturday afternoons and Saturday nights.  Once at Natalie’s, but they hadn’t repeated that.  Sleepovers on Saturday nights almost always segued into an extended or bigger friend group hangout on Sundays.

School ate into the days.  Ripley dropped by in the afternoon, after school.  Some days she stayed until after dinner, then went to Natalie’s.  Sometimes she left before dinner, like she was now, and they wouldn’t see her until the next day.  It was too hard and raised too many questions if her drop-off routine or schedule changed up too much on school days.  So she slept at Natalie’s.

During the holidays, as the plan went, she’d stay overnight with Mia and Carson.

Valentina slept here, technically, but she’d gotten ID from Mia that said she was a year older than she was, and had reconnected with an old school friend from the pre-bullying, pre-Addi days, telling that friend a story about witness protection against the family or something.  She hadn’t volunteered much information, and Mia hadn’t pried.  They were making noises about renting together.  Mia saw her two or three nights a week.  Usually in passing.

From her internet activity, she was looking for the woman who had abandoned her to Davie Cavalcanti’s so-called ‘care’.  It would be a hard search.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned the folding chairs,” she murmured.  “I hate myself.”

“It caught her off guard, but I think a lot of things will, for a long while,” Carson said.  “She bounced back well.  She still loves you.”

The anxiety worsened.

It felt like her family was slipping through her fingers.  Things hadn’t almost fallen apart, with the Davie situation.  Something had broken, and now it was slowly crumbling.

It was hard not to transplant the mental picture of her own mother’s face onto Ripley’s face, when Ripley showed those signs of doubt, or anxiety.

You scare the shit out of me.

She got her phone out.  She was considering her options when she noticed Carson studying her.

“Natalie,” she said.

“Be careful,” he said.  “This is good.  The way things are is good.”

It didn’t feel good.

It wasn’t like him to say that.  To second guess her.  Was that the sickness-as-kryptonite, or…?

She put the phone away.  “I”ll call tomorrow.  We made plans with Tyr for today.  Barbecue and a bomb.”

“Yesss!” Tyr reacted, smiling with an excess of teeth showing.

And I’ll hope she doesn’t answer.

⯁

Natalie had answered.  Mia had set the time and location.  A place she’d secured in advance, with cameras watching, to avoid any traps.

Natalie dressed the way she did to convey force, drawing the eye.  Business casual with a slight emphasis on the business- a dark green-blue suit jacket, gold jewelry, hair styled, makeup done.

Mia dressed to hide, as much as a woman of above-average stature could.  She still looked nice, but she didn’t want to draw eyes or be remembered.  A white blouse, a light jacket, understated makeup, and jeans.

The restaurant had one and a half floors enclosed by old fashioned stucco walls with ropes of garlic dangling.  Pasta was being made where people on the ground floor could watch – mostly families.  The unused half of the second floor was a patio with lots of olive trees around it, letting it be a more secluded spot.  There was only a gap in the trees that left a view of the water outside the city.  Many of the trees had cameras in them.  Mia had hired someone to climb them and situate the cameras.  She had eyes on the inside and eyes on the stairs leading through the alley to one side, the street above, and the street below.

Mia took off her sunglasses as she settled at the table, laying them beside her phone, which had the surveillance videos on them.

“Is it a crisis?  Lingering danger?  Unresolved business with the Cavalcanti family?” Natalie asked, looking at the phone.  She looked at Mia.  “Civil Warriors, even?”

“None of the above.  I’m keeping an eye on things.”

“I’m tempted to get up and walk away right now.”

“Don’t.  For Ripley’s sake, if anything.”

The waiter approached.  Mia turned her phone face down.

“Is this everyone?” he asked.  When Mia nodded, he asked,  “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“I’m so tempted to drink, you couldn’t imagine,” Natalie said.  “Ginger ale.”

“Red wine, please.  A local pinot noir, midrange?” Mia said.  “And water.”

She took the menu with a ‘thank you’.

After the waiter was gone, she flipped the phone back over, studying the contents.  Back at home, Carson was her ‘operator’, watching the cameras with another, constant set of eyes, on bigger screens with better resolution than a phone at arm’s length provided.  He’d alert her to wider problems.

“Are you in touch with Benito Jaime?” Mia asked.

“No.  He’s upset.  Our arrangement means he can’t release the video.  Ripley and I won’t cooperate.  I talked to Sean.  Sean won’t.  He’s confused but… he’s always been good at compartmentalizing.  Knowing you, you’re keeping an eye on him.  Keep doing that, just in case.  At the slightest hint of him doing anything with the footage, even a leak, my lawyer can go after him.”

“Okay.”

“Is that why you called?”

“How is Ripley sleeping?”

Natalie sat back in her seat, looking out in the direction of the water, lips pursed.

“What we’re doing is for Ripley’s sake.  When the tables are turned, and I have her for the holidays…”

“I was hoping we could renegotiate that.”

“I do want her to stay with us.”

Natalie had a momentary look on her face, drawing in a breath, like she would have hit Mia if Mia wasn’t sitting across from the table.  If they weren’t in a public place.  If Mia wasn’t more dangerous.

Even considering what Natalie had done to Davie Cavalcanti.

“We can negotiate,” Mia said, quiet.  “We won’t leave town.  You’ll see her daily, on some level.  We… if she wants to visit friends, you could give her the car rides.  The same way we see her daily now, while she’s in school.  Constant phone contact.”

“You can’t undermine me,” Natalie said, still not making eye contact.  Neck and jaw rigid.

“Have I?”

“I wanted her for a day, next week.  While my sister is in town.  You tell her to hang out with her friend?”

“It wasn’t my intent to undermine your time with her.”

“Really.”

“She-” Mia paused.  The waiter.  She flipped the phone face down again, and took her wine.  She could say this with him in earshot. “I thought you would want to go shopping with her.  She liked the idea.  I recommended it because you seem to know fashion.”

“So gracious,” Natalie said, with enough venom it seemed to startle the waiter.

“Um, are you ready to order?”

Mia ordered creamy chicken Madeira rigatoni.  Natalie asked for bruschetta.  An appetizer.  Probably so she could leave sooner.

“I’m willing to negotiate on the holiday.  For your peace of mind.  I’d like to share information between us.  So we both know how she’s doing, when to go easy.  When she’s less rested.  For her sake.  Not for mine.”

The way Natalie’s mouth opened, teeth parted, jaw moving slightly, it looked like she was chewing on the response she wanted to give, but wasn’t voicing, and it tasted awful.

Instead, Natalie forced her expression back to something approximating normal, and said, “She has screaming fucking nightmares.  What do you think?  Scares the shit out of Sterling.  And me.”

“Okay.  I figured.  She seemed tired.  She smiles less.”

“No fucking kidding.”

“She’s bonding well with Sean.”

“Pisses me the fuck off,” Natalie said.  “The man barely helped look for her.  Said it hurt too much.”

“I think a big part of it is that he’s not associated with any of the bad stuff.  He’s not a reminder.”

“The bad stuff,” Natalie put a vicious sort of emphasis on the ‘stuff’.  “Yeah.”

Mia paused, studying the camera stuff.  Giving Natalie a moment to reel things in, or take stock.

Maybe that was a vain hope.

“Are the nightmares getting less frequent?” Mia asked.

Natalie did that ‘chewing on a response’ business again, before glaring across the table at Mia.  “Are you deluded?”

“Aren’t we all?”

“I still can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose.  Are you an idiot?  Or is this a psychological game, where you act like this is in any way normal?  You’re a monster.  You took eleven years with her, and you act like it’s a favor, that you point her my way for a shopping trip?  Are we pretending we’re in some way equals?  Co-parents in some awkward little divorce?”

“For Ripley’s sake?  Yeah,” Mia replied.  “We should pretend.”

“The fact I told you about the nightmares in the first place makes me feel gross.  Violated.  You keep swinging that stick.  For Ripley’s sake.  For Ripley.”

“It’s what we agreed-”

“I know!”

Natalie’s raised voice turned heads.  The patio was mostly empty, but there was an elderly couple at the other corner of the patio, and people inside, looking through the wide open, curtain-framed doors.

“Yes, it’s important, Ripley’s sake.  It’s not the be-all and end-all,” Natalie said, that trace of venom in every word.  “I don’t trust the police to do anything.  I don’t trust you to not have contingency plans and escape routes.  I worry that Ripley wouldn’t forgive me if I said something.  I have no trust left in me, I feel like I’ve had her stolen from me again, every moment she’s not in my care.  I hate you so much, so often, it might make my life years shorter.  So here we are.”

“Are the nightmares getting less frequent?”

“Fuck you.”

The words were said with enough hostility and volume that more heads turned.  Mia shifted position, folding her arms and crossing her ankles under the table.  She let her hair be a partially see-through curtain that kept people from seeing her face.

Mia pointed out, “She senses the hostility.  The resentment.  She doesn’t feel comfortable at your place.  Something to look out for, maybe.”

“So if I say the slightest, most minor of unkind words about you, she gets upset.  But I’m supposed to believe she talks about me with you?”

“No.  She talks about us with the therapist.  Slightly tweaking details, I’m sure.”

“You hack your way in, look at the therapist’s notes?” Natalie asked, with a note of derision.

“No.  That’s not really my skillset, and I wouldn’t.  I overheard.”  Easier to say that than to put Ripley in the crosshairs for letting it slip.

“Of course you did.”

“I’m letting you know for her sake.  So you can adjust, before she gets a bit older and can make even more choices about where she stays or what she does, custody-wise.”

“What sane, healthy human being could be in my shoes and not feel what I feel?  Not resent?  Not hate?  You took my child.”

“You lost her.”

“Fuck you.  No,” Natalie sat forward.  “You do not fucking get to say that, that’s a lie.  I was tired, I was anemic, with blood clots the size of my fists coming out of my stitched-together vaginal canal, stitches in my clit.  From pushing my daughter out.  I had zero, zero help.  Zero second chances.  And the moment, the moment I was weak, distracted as I begged for help, one moment, you preyed on that.  You stole my girl and derailed my life.  You pervert.”

“I never-”

“You pervert.  You sprayed yourself over her, you took her body, you took clothes, you wiped bodily fluids off her, you bathed her, and you did it all for your own selfish, warped desires.  I don’t even want to ask if you breast fed her, because if you say yes then I’m going to vomit on the spot.  What the fuck is that, if not perverted?  You took shopping trips and so many intimate mother-daughter conversations, you graffiti’ed yourself and the people you surround yourself with all over her and that can never, ever be wiped clean.  You shaped her and you molded her, and there will never be a day I look at her and don’t see some piece of you in her.  That’s perverted.  And you take half of the time that remains?  And I have to sit here and take it, because any other action I take would lose her?  You’re a perversion, a sick joke of a person, and however you dress, however reasonable you pretend to be, whatever you buy her or tell her, however you manipulate things or make yourself new identities and digital records, you’ll never be anything else.”

Natalie gripped the table cloth with both hands.

Mia glanced down at the phone that was showing the video feeds, to be sure this wasn’t a distraction for some other ends.  It didn’t seem rehearsed, at least.  It said more about Natalie than it did about her, that she could see things through that lens.

“No response?” Natalie asked, letting go of the table cloth.  “Coward.”

Mia had to measure out her thoughts before speaking, to be sure she wasn’t causing more problems than she was fixing.  But she felt the need to point out, “Carson told me that he talked to you about you being my bogeyman, for eleven straight years.  I mentioned it, briefly.”

Natalie glared.

“You’re not, anymore.  You’re fading away, Natalie.  To me.  To Ripley.  You’re a…” Mia sighed, searching for phrasing.  “…an insignificant woman, with no career, no hobbies worth talking about, no parenting skills, no passions except for hate.  Nothing to teach except anger, resentment, and that hate.  She doesn’t want that in her life.  She’s good.  I was trying to support something between you two for her sake, to find one thing you were good at, and nurture it.  And this is how you respond.”

“Don’t do me favors.”

“Not you.  It’s for her.  All of it.  Maybe one day you’ll look back on this as a missed opportunity.  That I was doing you a favor, and you let it slip by because you were blinded by hate.”

Natalie met Mia’s eyes. “Have you heard what I did to Davie Cavalcanti?  Or seen pictures or-?”

“Pictures.  Yes.”

“I think of doing worse to you.  I see… a glass, or a salt shaker and I think of picking that thing up and smashing or cutting your face until the improvised tool breaks, and then going, constantly going, until there’s no way anyone would realize there was a face there at all.  In the quiet hours of this fucked up compromise, this fucking hostage situation I’m in, where I can’t act without losing her?  Because she’s still too attached to you?  I think about it.  Over and over again.  I’ll give Sterling extra special attention, and distract myself, engage with him, I try, but then he wants to do something himself, without me right there, or Ripley will be there, or I’ll be working, and then that stops.  It becomes that empty quiet again, where Ripley isn’t in my care, I think about why, about you, and I think about erasing your face from the world with the nearest tools at hand.  It’s addictive at this point.  Or obsessive-compulsive.”

“That would explain the energy Ripley picked up on.”

“I’m in therapy, but-” Natalie made a disgusted sort of snort-laugh, one-note.  “-What the fuck kind of sad-ass band-aid is that on the gaping wound you’ve left in my life?  What the fuck can time in that armchair do when every second she spends with you is salt on open wounds?”

“It can’t hurt, at least,” Mia said.

“I’m waiting,” Natalie said, sitting back.  “Waiting for her to let something slip to a friend, parent, or therapist.  Or for the therapist to get past the fiction and get to the heart of things, and say something that helps her realize.  Waiting for you to slip up and go back to crime, then end up on the wrong side of a bullet.”

“I’m not.  I won’t.”

“You should.  To give me a shot at hearing some news report, telling me you died.  That’d be kind of you.”

“I’m not involved and even when I was, I was excessively careful and steps removed from things.  Davie was an outlier.  Equipped with technology, tools, and reach nobody could have anticipated.”

“So you’re not keeping an eye on things?  The civil warrior situation?”

“I’m watching.  But I’m not involved.”

“You should be.  They’re out of control, growing in number, doing a lot of damage.  Terrorizing people.  You have the tools to do something about it.”

“If that’s an attempt at bait, it’s pretty sad.”

“It’s truth,” Natalie said.  She sighed heavily.  “I’m so fucking tired of this.  Of you.  I’m waiting for the world to put this right. somehow.  Then maybe that wound can start to heal.”

“What if that never happens?” Mia asked.  “What if she goes to therapy enough she feels mostly okay, then stops going… and with everything in order and the therapist’s guidance, she prefers me and Carson to you, still?  If the therapist never realizes.  If I’m too careful?  What if the world is unjust and doesn’t want to put things right?  What if everything settles, she grows up, and looks back on everything, and she still finds you too miserable to be around?  Too focused on keeping that wound open, when she’s tired of pain and hurt?”

“Then maybe I have nothing left to lose,” Natalie said.

“Why does Sterling never get counted?”

“Sterling might prefer Sean to me.  Maybe he notices the wound and maybe I’m bad for him.  If i end up in a position where I’ve really truly lost her, maybe, and I’m not saying it’s certain, because I do think about Sterling, but maybe I might as well flip the table, expose everything, go after you.  If I’ve really truly lost her, there’s nothing holding me back, right?”

Mia took a sip of her wine.

“And you can’t come after me to stop that from happening any more than I can target you.  Because the cost would be losing Ripley.  So if I’m fading?  You should be scared, scrabbling for some way to keep me relevant, to prop me up, give me time with her.  Do whatever you can.  Because I am that spiteful, I am dangerous, the moment I lose her.”

Natalie let out a soft half-chuckle, with zero humor and a fair amount of hate, adding,  “If I have nothing left to lose, if it really comes down to it?  I will scrape your face off this world with her watching.  Most of the parents in this world would break into fucking applause if I did, if they heard about it.  They’d thank me.  I should be ten times the bogeyman because I’m fading.”

Mia wasn’t sure to say about that, so she sat in silence, periodically glancing at her phone.

The waiter came with the food.

He seemed to sense something in the air because he stopped a few paces away from the table.

“Can I get that to go?  A simple cardboard container is fine,” Natalie said.

“Me as well?” Mia asked.  “Something came up.”

The waiter, a bit bewildered, took the dishes as fast as he’d come.

Natalie got her things and stood.  “I’m not pretending you didn’t win.  You won.  You took her and you shaped her into someone who doesn’t even know she’s being used as a hostage, buying my silence. You stole eleven years of time with her and you get a share of the time that remains.  But it goes both ways.  You cornered yourself, too.  You’ll give me time.  You’ll compromise.  You’ll bend over backwards to make sure I don’t fade in importance.  You have to.  That’s the price of your ‘win’.”

Natalie walked over to the bar area and stood by to wait for her food, while Mia remained sitting for a few minutes, finishing her wine, thinking.

Well.

This is untenable.

⯁

Mia, lying propped up in bed with the laptop across one thigh and a pillow, head on Carson’s shoulder, watched the police navigating Camrose.  She had taken off her jeans for comfort, and after she’d rubbed at the tender spot where she’d been shot, he’d taken over.  She appreciated that, as high-libido as he was, when he gave her a foot rub or a massage, he didn’t cheat and try to make that into something else.  On another night, she would have been the one to move his hand to her inner thigh.  Instead, she laid her hand over his, stopping him from massaging the thigh muscle around the wound without quite touching the spot where the bullet had gone in.

“It’s been a week and a half,” Mia said.  “The police and detectives have moved on to other things.  I think it’s time.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait longer?” Carson asked.  “Another week or two, I can be on my feet for more than twenty minutes at a time, I can run, I can drive.”

“Ripley told Blair that she’s doesn’t want to go over to Natalie’s anymore.  That sets a timeline, based on what she said.  If she gets frustrated or upset, she might blow it all up.  I’d rather take steps, control what’s happening, and handle some business on the way out.”

“Okay.”

“Be my ops?”

“I’m game.  I’m itching to get out there and do more, though.  I like how I feel like a badass secret agent when you’re at the helm.”

“There’ll be a lot to do after.  Can you make the call?  We’ll need help, and you’re better at talking to people.”

“Walk me through the plan.”

⯁

The key was to control who was in play.  At a certain hour, there were reduced patrols.  Less cars out on the streets.

Then with one call, timed when a vehicle was in the right area, asking for a welfare check, one car could be pulled away.  Eight thousand dollars bought a hired hand who could delay them further.

Meaning she knew which two cars would arrive, when authorities were called.

She wanted this handled, police tied up in something complicated.  The Civil Warriors were convenient in that way, because they were really predictable, in the broad sense.  She could watch groups online and know when they’d be active, where they met, and what they were doing.  There were buttons that could be pressed to provoke them.

Then, on the smaller scale, they were much more unpredictable.  Messy, even.

Every week they had a hangout.  One girl, Mary Nash, was complaining about forced babysitting on social media.  Every week, members of this subset of the Civil Warriors gathered, to shoot the shit, plan, organize.  It was more a guy thing, so others stayed out of the way.  Some of the wives hung out on their own.

Mia dialed, then put her phone to her ear.

“911, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Children with a gun.  Just down the street.”

“What street, ma’am?”

“Gateway Avenue, they’ve-”

“Units are on their way.”

“-they’ve been partying and drinking for hours, I wouldn’t-” she put an intentional quaver in her voice, as if she was a little older.  It was easy, because she was a bit nervous, being this close to the field.  “-normally make a big deal of that, but there were gunshots, and I think I saw some younger children with a handgun.  The adults were laughing.”

“Alright, ma’am.  Can I get your name and address?”

“Shauna Waldrop, 1322 Gateway Avenue.”

Shauna wasn’t home.  But a police presence would bring people outdoors.  It would muddle things.

“And your number, please?”

Mia recited the number.  “-seven-five-zero-eight.  I don’t want to make a fuss.  I don’t want to get involved or get on the wrong side of them as a neighbor.  They’re rough people, but if children are involved, I have to speak up, don’t I?”

“It’s good you called.”

On her laptop, she messaged others.  Carson.  Rosales.

“When you say they are rough people, what do you mean?”

“They were rioting a few weeks ago.  They had signs with the smiley faces and the ‘boo’, which seems so silly to me, but apparently it’s a gang thing?”

“One moment, ma’am.”

“I really don’t want to be involved if they’re dangerous like that.”

“One moment, please.”

Mia hung up.

She turned off the phone, then drove around the block.

She slowed as she passed the house, made sure nobody was up and looking out the window.  Latex glove on, she threw a handgun through the window and onto the lawn.  It would be in plain view.

That would be excuse enough.

Back at home, Carson would be managing communication.  Phone calls to specific numbers would, like bombs in the movies, rigged to go off if a phone call was made, would activate devices.  Not bombs, but signal jammers, across both ends of Camrose.

Limiting how many police arrived, among other aspects of this.  Because Mia wanted the response to be immediate but insufficient, at least at first.  To maximize the chaos.  For people to be rushed.

People were so reliant on phones.  Losing those would make the feeling of being out of control worse.

Circling around, Mia parked beside Rosales and Rosales’ minivan.  Rosales might have been one of The Kids, but she’d dressed up.  She wore a suit jacket and shirt, hair in a low ponytail, a bit messy.

Rosales flashed a smile.

“Keep an eye out.”

The police came from the other direction, stopping outside the house.  Two cars.  The dispatcher would be having trouble getting a hold of others.

One car was younger officers from the city, moved out to Camrose to fill a need.  One had gotten a concussion while playing sports during the strike and Mia suspected that had something to do with him being sent to Camrose.  Where things, unique instances of a school bombing or trap-ridden house aside, were calmer.  The other was just new.

If something went terribly wrong, Mia had other plans.  Riskier.

But for now, the officers were engaging with the rougher elements of the Civil Warrior group.

Mia picked up the phone, dialed Rosales.  The pickup was immediate.  “Now.  You’ll see them outside.  Two officers.”

Rosales exhaled audibly across the phone line.  Visibly, Mia could see, where she was parked across the street and around the corner.  Mia put her earbuds in.

As more officers arrived, Rosales got out of the car, approached the junior officers, clipboard in hand.  Mia could hear her.

“They were saying they couldn’t get in touch with you.”

“A woman that lives here called.  Shauna Waldorp?  Waldrop.  1322 Gateway.”

“She called emergency.  Yeah.”

“Have you done a walkthrough of the house?”

“We can barely get in the front door.  They’re crowding us.  They’re drunk, belligerent.  We backed out because more bodies crowding in there wasn’t helping.”

“Have you handled a case like this before, kids involved on this level?”

“No.”

“Yes.  Wasn’t this messy.”

“Okay, so number one priority, as you guys get control over the situation, has to be getting the kids somewhere safe.  If you guys are getting into the house while things are still wild, maybe you get them outside, pass them to us.  We handle that, you go back to helping your colleagues.  When you can, do a walkthrough, look for the weapons that were described.  Might be a toy, might not.  Any drugs or alcohol out in the open where kids could access it.  When things are calmer and settled, we’ll handle a walkthrough of our own.  We have a checklist.  More mundane stuff.  Too many kids in a room, cleanliness, et cetera.”

“According to one woman, they have a regular family gathering, the adults drink, but they have enough babysitters, kids are fed, happy, healthy, having one big sleepover.”

“Okay.  Um.  There’s still the danger of the gun.  On our end, our immediate priority, is going to be getting the kids to the hospital, we’ll pass them on to Eve there.  She can do swabs for gunpowder, drugs, tests.  Make sure they aren’t malnourished.  From there, they go back home unless there’s clear signs of abuse, drug exposure, gunpowder, that sort of thing.”

Mia had the sense that Rosales had lost her stride right at the beginning, there, but she’d found the script again.  She texted Rosales a reminder about one bit of the script she’d skipped over.

“Oh, um,” Mia watched from a distance as Rosales checked her phone.  “A colleague is asking if there’s gang affiliation.  The woman who called said so.”

“Confederate flags, signage, guns, militia affiliation.  They’re deep into the Civil Warrior shit.  Oh, sorry.”

Rosales smiled, laughing, then touched the officer’s arm.  She was young, she was pretty, the officer was young.  It was a good move.  One Mia never would have been able to pull off.  She intimidated most men.  Rosales finished laughing and said, “I’ve heard worse than that, working with kids in bad situations.”

Rosales went back to her car, picking up some paperwork, and filled it out to look busy.

Mia could hear the officers through the microphone in the metal portion of the clipboard.

“God damn and a half, why haven’t we heard about her before?”

“She was touching my arm but smiling at you.  What signal is that meant to send?”

More officers arrived, and they found the gun as they went around the back, because the front hall was so jammed with people.  One officer came back around to get the evidence bag and then carried it out to the car.  At that point, things got raucous, inside.

The officer who’d put the evidence in the back of the car stopped to check in with Rosales.  Spookier.

“I already checked in with those guys,” Rosales said.  “We can drop the kids off with Eve at the hospital, circle back, do the walkthrough?”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m from downtown, I started a year and a half ago.  Sandra.”

“Hmmm.  Heard of you.”

“Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?”

“Hah.  Gotta go.”

When Mia had been tracking the movements of the various officers and entities around Camrose, she’d paid attention to child services.  Sandra was an employee downtown, but she worked from home most days and worked in-office other days.  Mostly handling paperwork and child services’ scheduling around the family court.

It was all convenient.  The young officers, the existence of Sandra.  But it was a convenience she’d dug for, worked for, and shaped, by controlling how communication flowed over the evening.

The situation inside got harder handle when the kids were led outside.  People were shouting, calling out for their kids, which made kids upset.  Officers had to hold them back.

At that point, Mia pulled up.

Rosales charmed the officers, while Mia sorted out the upset and spooked kids, then brought out paperwork, for more distraction.  Once the officers saw she was older and taller than them, she faded in importance.

A clipboard, confidence, enough paperwork and procedures to sound legitimate to someone who had a little bit of experience, and a healthy dose of distraction and pressure.

Four kids in the van Rosales was driving.

Mia closed the door.

A toddler in the car seat with a pink onesie, along with the little girl the one Civil Warrior had brought to the riot outside the Cavalcanti place.  Upset.

Mia reached back and smoothed the girl’s hair with her hand.  “It’s okay.  You’re safe.”

With that, the girl seemed a little less upset.

They pulled away.

Rosales called.

Was there a problem?

Mia connected her earbuds to the phone, then answered.  The streetlights weren’t all operational, and Mia’s car and its passengers were intermittently plunged into deep darkness, then brighter light as they drove down the street.  Not speeding, not not slow either.

“I’m here,” Mia responded.  “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.  I’m off to the hospital now.  I’ll drop off the kids.”

“Good.  Watch out for the cameras.”

“I wanted to know, was there a placement opportunity?”

Mia was silent, considering.

“There’s not enough room at the hospital or in care.  The gun thing is going to take a while to resolve.  Do I keep one in custody?”

“Can you give them better care than they’d have, otherwise?”

“Think so.”

“Let’s talk about it later.”

“So I hold onto the one?”

“…Yeah.  Without getting any hopes up.  We’ll talk.  Plan.”

“Awesome.  Thanks.”

That ‘awesome’ made Mia feel uneasy.

A message, now.  From Carson.  It appeared on her phone, where her phone was mounted by the radio.

Strange traffic ahead.  Turn in two rights.

That was bad.  Had the officer Rosales talked to tipped someone off?  Were they now scrambling?  Had a call gotten through, when someone left the dead zone around a cell signal scrambler?

She turned at the second right.  Onto a narrower road.

Another message from Carson.

Turn at next right, stop, hide the car, cut through the woods.

That next right came fast.  She turned, drove between trees, where they were spaced out enough for the car, and got out.

She hit the buttons to call him.  Texts weren’t working.

“They’re moving to block off both ends of the road you’re on now.  I had to send you this way.  Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said.  “Is it police?  Cavalcantis?  Civil Warriors backing up their friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want to go home,” the little girl told Mia.

“I know, honey,” she said.  “That’s what we’re working on.”

She unbuckled the car seat.

“Mia, you might need to leave the kids.  To move faster.”

No.

She wouldn’t leave them in a car when the weather was cooling like it was.  They’d freeze if they weren’t found, and she didn’t trust that they’d be found.

She held the car seat in one hand, the girl in the other.  A small hand clutched at the lapels of her suit jacket.

Into the woods.  It felt like an echo of carrying Bryan to safety.  Being careful not to hit him with branches.  Weaving through trees.  Burdened.

The  plan had been to get them out.  Mia and Carson had time and money, so she could care for them, maintaining a separate residence.  She needed to do this before she put other plans into motion.

A downhill slope.  She moved carefully.

“It’s too dark,” the little girl said.

“Do you want to know a trick for seeing in the dark?” Mia asked.  “You’re better at seeing things you’re not looking directly at.  Can you give it a try?”

This had been something that had to happen before getting out, and she’d been rushed, because Ripley was preparing to cut ties, and Mia couldn’t guess how Natalie would react after those ties were cut.

And then she had to get out, get Ripley, and do so in a way that didn’t ruin her relationship with Ripley.  So the plan she’d outlined to Carson was that they’d do this, secure the kids somewhere, and then, not long after, she would send a message under the guise of being Natalie, to the therapist, outing them.  Scuttling everything.

Which wasn’t a lie or manipulation- Natalie had threatened just that.  The key difference was that Mia was controlling the narrative.  She’d send it prematurely, framing it in a different way.  Timed, so Ripley could know what was going on, Natalie’s part in it, and cut ties with Natalie.  Sean too, by extension.

It was awful.  There would be so much hurt.  But the situation was untenable.  Natalie was too unpredictable, too dangerous.

If she waited, it would be too much harder, people would be looking for her.  She wouldn’t be able to hide in Camrose, getting food delivered, waiting.

So Mia would rescue these kids from a life with the worst sorts of people.  Maybe she’d all with Rosales, taking Rosales under her wing.  That was… it was very sudden, unanticipated, but it could be good.  She’d need Carson to give her a read on the girl.  Then she’d scuttle Natalie, and get her family out.

If she could get out of here, first.

Get out, get clear of Camrose.  Find a more tenable situation, and give things time.  Time to heal.  Time to acclimatize.  See how Ripley dealt.  How things worked out.  Shape people’s perception of the situation.

Maybe, down the line, she would introduce these two to Ripley and Tyr.  Until then, Ripley would still be in school, she’d still have activities, and a life.

She paused, putting the car seat down, and checked her phone.  Carson was her operator.  He should have been giving direction and updates.

No signal.

The forest might as well have been on fire, because she felt like there was no oxygen in these woods.  Breath froze in her lungs and throat.

The green of the leaves and pines overhead felt otherworldly, with the way the moonlight lit it up.  It felt too late in the evening, like it should be darker, the colors muted.

She wasn’t in a dead zone for cell signal.

When she resumed moving, it was with a different pace and focus.  Warier.

A path had naturally formed in the woods, probably more from woodland animals than from humans, but she did see some beer cans and a discarded t-shirt.  Some younger adults had probably hiked up this way to sit on the rocks overlooking Camrose.  Drink.  Make out.

Something she’d never really enjoyed.  She’d fallen and it felt like pieces of her life had been dashed on that forest floor on the other side of the country, and they’d lingered as gaping holes in her life.  Amnesia, but for skills, not memories… but it felt like she’d had amnesia for the later stuff.  Gaps and lived experiences a person was meant to have, that she’d skipped over or been denied.  The dating and romance part of a relationship.  Bearing a child inside her.

She avoided that natural path, but she watched it.  And sure enough, she saw a climbable tree with low branches, and she saw a camera.  A different brand than the one she liked.

Her headache found its clawed holds on the back of her brain, digging into her raw ability to function.  She felt like an automaton, dragging herself forward, while a terrible sadness took hold.  Like the headache was digging one clawed thumb or gnawing fang into her emotional centers and leaving a black, awful sort of melancholy.

A feeling of loss, or knowing she’d lost.  The same sort of feeling a parent might feel holding a child that was slated to die in a matter of hours.

“Hands up.”

Rider.

She put the car seat down, then, with both hands free, the girl.

She walked away a few steps.

“You stay right there, okay?  You’re safe, you’re going right home as soon as we clear up this misunderstanding.  Okay?” Rider asked.  “I work with the police.”

The girl nodded.

“You were watching me?”

“I was,” Ben said.

He was off to the side, also armed.

Camera in his fucking pocket.  Because of course there was.

“He called me,” Rider said.

“I need you to get on your knees.  Arms straight out behind you, fingers splayed, palms toward the ground.

“The Civil Warriors are a mixed group, but even the best of them aren’t great,” Mia said.

“Kneel.”

She did.

“Arms straight out behind you.”

“They’re ugly people who do violence.  Or they condone the violence of people near them.  Racists.  Homophobes.  They hurt and terrorize people.  Are you okay with that?”

“Palms toward the ground.”

“They’re misogynists.  People who beat down others to make themselves feel bigger.  The dad of the toddler there has prior arrests for drug use and domestic violence.  The father of the older girl had allegations from past girlfriends, one allegation of sexual violence, but she backed out after his friends terrorized her online.”

“I talked to him.  He’s got a new outlook on life after having a daughter.”

“Fuck that.  That’s not even halfway to being enough!” Mia raised her voice.  “How are they going to raise those kids?  To hate?  To serve men?”

“You don’t get to make the call,” Ben said.

“We took six kids.  Four were supposed to go to other homes, proper schools.  These two are young enough, they can learn something better.  They can learn!  Out of those six kids, four are homeschooled or ‘unschooled’, or they’re in daycare run by family who pull that shit.  And the fifth is still in diapers, but you know it’ll be the same!  We’re okay with that!?”

“It’s not your call,” Ben said, approaching.

“Why the hell not!?” she asked, twisting around to one side.  She had a better view of Rider than Ben.

“If she moves like that again, Ben, be ready to shoot her.  We’ve both seen her tear a grown man apart.”

“Why can’t we say that’s not good enough?  They’re denying kids opportunities, growth, a life?  They’re going to be shitty wives in kitchens, doing every lick of work needed to run the house, because that’s what their parents lived!  They’re going to grow up with hatred instilled in them!”

“Maybe,” Ben said.  “But where do you draw the line?”

“I draw the line at being disgusting, ignorant, sleazy people who only do harm!  At being racist or homophobic!  I could show you the online activity of the fathers of these two.  Things they’d say about you, Benito.  Your family.”

“I don’t trust you to make that judgement call.”

“I will show you!  Trust the evidence, or, wait, no, you don’t care about that.  You’re willing to twist the facts to suit your little movie.”

“Almost shot you, when you jerked around like that.”

“You don’t want to shoot me on camera, right?  That wouldn’t look so good.  Or would you edit that out, add another little fiction?”

The handcuffs clicked into place.

Ankle restraints clicked around her ankles.

“Stand,” Rider said, gripping the chain.  “Get the kids, Ben?”

The walk to get out of the woods was a slog.  They wouldn’t listen or engage.  Her footsteps had to be short, which was awkward on uneven ground, and her thigh began hurting.  A dull pain that she knew was meant to be sharper and deeper.

Out of the trees, onto road, brightly lit by streetlights.  Two police cars were parked, lights flashing, siren off.  Members of the family of Civil Warriors stood by.

Natalie had been invited to watch.

“Natalie gets some of the credit,” Ben said.

Mia’s head turned.

Ben shrugged one shoulder.  “You mentioned the child you saw with the Civil Warriors.  More than once.  She remembered it.  We talked it out.  The way she put it, you’re either a fraud, which is one thing, or you wouldn’t be able to let it go.  You downplayed it to me.  I even believed you.  Natalie got me thinking about it again.”

Natalie answered a question from an officer, nodded, then dabbed at the corner of one eye with a tissue.

“I tracked them down, same way you did, probably.  Then kept an eye on things.  Then, a bit down the line, there you were.  Setting up, doing slow drives through the neighborhood.”

He walked her up the steep slope to the edge of the road.

Officers were ready to take her in.

“How’d you do with the other woman with the kids?” Rider asked.

“Got ’em.  I think she drove into the area of that cell jammer.  The guy in the apartment-”

“Carson Hurst.”

“-couldn’t contact her.  She tried to drive around us, hit the spike strip.  She’s in custody.  Kids are safe.”

“And Carson?” Rider asked.

“In custody.  He wasn’t moving very fast or very far.”

“They’d be better off with me,” Mia told Ben.  “I think you know that.  I think you know that if you saw what these people are like online, the crimes this very group participated in, the sort of things they carried out after meetings like the one they were having tonight?  You’d lose sleep.  So you don’t want to look.  You know if I go to jail, and you check in on those two, in five years, ten, twenty, you’ll find them living dismal, stagnant, aborted lives, filled with violence, from men like their fathers, and violence done by them, to people who don’t deserve it.”

“You don’t get to make the call.”

“That’s not an argument,” she told him.

“It’s fact.”

“What happens to Tyr?” she asked.

“What do you think?” Rider asked her.  “Get in the car.  Watch your head.”

“That’s a good question to have asked yourself before all of this,” Ben said.

She didn’t duck down, and they weren’t in a great position to make her.  “You aren’t right here, Ben.  And you’re not quite dumb enough to think you are, either.  You know.”

A cop pulled out the handheld taser.  He pressed the button and electricity buzzed between the contacts.

She got in.

Natalie had approached, and she seemed ready to deliver some biting line or say something.  But she didn’t.  She smiled a bit, eyes wet with- she didn’t seem happy, so it wasn’t happy tears.  Relief?

Rider closed the door.

The last Mia saw, twisting around in the too-small space of the back of the cop car, hands behind her, making sitting awkward, Ben and Natalie hugged.  Celebrating.

She shivered, settling into a slumped position across the back seat, taking it all in.  Something was off.  It took her long moments, her mind racing… then finding there wasn’t anything to take into account.  There were no good options or resources to tap.  She realized what was so off.

The anxiety had stilled.  From head to toe, from every muscle to every nerve, it was like a sudden silence after a deafening roar, louder, somehow, than the years-long roaring had been.

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When I’m with people like this, I don’t feel like I’m getting out.  I feel like I’m getting deeper, Natalie thought.

The sirens were whining across the city, and smoke made visibility worse past about fifty feet, but the view ahead was evident enough.  A two-lane road cut through the woods at the base of the hill.  There was fire further down, too far away to see, but close enough that it provided a backdrop of orange light.

Bryan’s blood streaked Mia and Carson Hurst, from duct taping him up, and from him being draped over Mia’s shoulder.  Natalie had helped lift him down, because she was the most able adult, but she’d at least managed to wipe away the blood.

Two cars had been left parked in the middle of the road.  Police.  Natalie was left to wonder at appearances.  What would people take away from this, seeing the Hursts covered in blood, surrounded by smoke, framed by the light, like this?  Would it make the difference, in police deciding to shoot?

Bryan was running out of time.  Even duct taped… he was being jostled too much.  And Davie… did he even have a clock anymore?  He’d lost his people.  She didn’t want to ask, because she didn’t want to hear the Hursts give their explanations, with their expert knowledge, which they’d earned by keeping criminals on the streets.

Which they’d earned by stealing and hiding Camellia, and taking all the steps they’d taken to cover their trail.

The boy was bleeding, Camellia was struggling with even walking, and that had to be the residual effects of blood loss.  Not that Natalie was a doctor.

“Can we use the drones?  With whatever you did with the computer?” Natalie asked.

“That’s a backdoor, and it only really works if they go back into the house and use the computers there.  But I need them to get through the password process because I can’t.”

“And they won’t,” Carson said.  “Because it’s burning.”

“It’s not likely, no.”

There was a pause.

“Carson, your thoughts about the road?” Mia asked.

“You know my thoughts about the road,” he murmured.  “If they’re boxing us in like this, and if we suspect Davie circled around… hunter.”

“Presumably a skilled rifleman with a clear line of sight.  Improvised shield?”

“Shields.  We don’t know where he’s parked.  We’d need shields on either side, kids between us.  And neither of us are capable of holding up something that could stop something high caliber.  Even if we had the material.”

“Then the road won’t work.  We’ll have to cross it at some point.”

“If we wait too long, I don’t think Bryan will make it.  We’re all slowing down,” Natalie said.  They’d been moving without stopping for a few minutes now.  Mia had her leg wound, Camellia was wiped out.

“I know,” Mia said.  “But if we don’t wait, I don’t think any of us make it.”

The fact she was agreeing without raising any issues felt like the most surefire mark that their situation was bad.

Mia motioned.  They moved through the trees, just close enough to the road to see activity there.  Far enough away to not be too visible through the trees.

“We might have been better off delaying another fifteen minutes.  Setting up some distraction on our way to the house,” Carson said.  “We rushed.”

“There’s a chance we’d be seen.  And we thought we’d get out faster,” Mia said.

She glanced at Natalie at the tail end of that last sentence.

A branch snapped as Camellia kicked it.  Carson caught her, to keep her from falling.  Natalie could see his expression twist in pain.

Natalie hurried forward, past Mia, and moved some branches and things out of the way.  To reduce noise.  She held a branch back.

“That will make us easier to track,” Mia murmured, voice muffled by the mask she wore, almost drowned out by the siren wail.

Everything Natalie did was somehow the wrong thing.  Every idea the wrong idea.

This was a custom made torment, just for her.

“I’ll put them back behind us,” Camellia said.  “We’re making enough tracks as it is.”

“You can barely lift your feet off the ground with each step you’re taking, let alone bend over,” Natalie told her.  “I wanted to move stuff out of the way for you, and so Mia doesn’t trip with Bryan on her shoulder.”

“I won’t,” Mia replied.

Camellia’s feet were dragging, and after Natalie had pointed it out, Mia seemed to notice.  So did Camellia herself.  Toe-shaped scuff marks dug into the dry layer of dirt and the wood chips and pine needles that had been shed by the trees.

“Sorry,” Camellia said.  She made a visible effort to lift her feet up more, with emphasis on ‘effort’.  It seemed to take something out of her.

“You’re doing fine,” Natalie said.  “We’re doing the best we can.  I wanted to clear the way.”

“Shh,” Carson murmured.  He motioned.

The ‘shh’ felt like an admonishment aimed at Natalie, specifically.  She wondered if it was.  He was really good at cutting her off every time she had a small victory or affirmation.  Was she noticing because she knew he was an attractive man and a weak part of her was lonely and drawn to that, because this scenario somehow brought up her old traumas, because he was actually doing it on purpose, or was it because none of that was true, and she was fucking up?  Which was worse?

The worst was wondering, being unsure.  Because, like the years she’d spent imagining Camellia’s fate, it weighed on her as if every single thing was true.

At Carson’s bidding, they advanced a little further.  Natalie continued to move things out of the way, as much as she could without rustling.  Camellia halfheartedly, or without much energy, moved some things back.  Natalie stood by the path side, holding a low branch to let Mia, Carson, and a barely conscious Bryan by, before Camellia reached her.  She offered her arm for support.  This time Camellia took it.  Natalie was almost pulled off balance, with the degree of support Camellia sought.

Carson had heard or seen some sign of cops.  Men and women in uniform were holding cloths to their lower faces, or had put cloth there and then used smoke masks to help hold it in place.

“It’s the gas from the bleach and ammonia mixture.  They can smell traces of it or they’ve been warned, and they moved back, they don’t want to come in,” Carson whispered.  He leaned forward a bit, looking.  “I think it’s a straight-line perimeter.  That’s tougher.  If they were advancing, we could maybe find a way to sneak past one group that got ahead of the others.”

A straight line going up the hill.  How far?  Could Camellia even make that trek, if they tried to go back up?  Could Bryan survive the delay?

And the road.

They were boxed in.  A gunman behind them.

They took a moment to rest and it felt like they shouldn’t.  They had to, but they shouldn’t.

“What are our odds?” Mia asked, turning to Carson.  “That Ben and Rider swoop in?”

“This is Rider’s specialty,” Natalie said.  “Extracting people from terrible situations.”

“Low odds,” Carson replied, ignoring Natalie.  “The fire strikes me as the last thing they could think of that might contribute.”

Mia, adjusting Bryan, leaned against a tree.  “Strikes me the same way.”

“Rider’s an expert, Ben has similar training, they work well together,” Natalie insisted.  Her emotions were still high, the imagery of her childhood and her Uncle Earl hung heavy in the back of her mind.  Trying vainly to do something when two cousins who were a bit tall for their age were diminishing her.

Natalie was breathing hard, and some of that was exhaustion, but it was also emotion- an inability to calm down.  All of this- Ben had called it the centipede’s dilemma, after Sterling had talked about being too aware of his tongue at the dentist.

Natalie felt like that now.  Every breath had to be measured in through the oxygen.  Every exhalation fogged her view.  Every movement had to be made with an awareness of her impaired view, and some mindfulness about protecting her suit.  Not that Mia and Bryan were concerning themselves a lot with that, but… still.

“Let me see your leg,” Carson murmured.

Mia moved her leg closer to him.  He tore the fabric open, examining it, and peeled bandage back.

Camellia watched without flinching.  Natalie couldn’t, even when it was someone she hated to the depths of her being.

“It’ll be nice when we can take this gear off,” Natalie murmured.  “I’m not very good at the breathing part.”

“Me either,” Camellia said.

Why was being self depreciating the only way to get some connection with Camellia?  Conceding to hold a branch for Mia and Carson.  Now this?

Still, she’d take it.  “Ben and I were telling Sterling it’s called the centipede’s dilemma.  The centipede, content to walk his merry way through the forest, was asked by a toad, which leg moves in what order?  And the centipede fell to exhaustion.  Something like that.  From a poem.”

“I get that at the dentist.  It drives me crazy, I never know what to do with my tongue.”

Natalie, caught off guard, had to suppress a laugh, and a flare of warmth and relief in her upper chest and head that made her feel momentarily dizzy.

“What?”  Camellia asked.

“Sterling too.  At the dentist.  It drove him crazy.  It’s why it came up,” Natalie told Camellia.  “You are his sister.”

My daughter.

“After my head injury, I had to relearn all skills, even simple motor functions, like writing, and buttoning up clothing,” Mia said.  “It felt like that.  In a way, a lot of things still do.  A mix of things requiring intentionality, and simple things that trip me up.”

You couldn’t even let me have that? Natale thought.  You took eleven years of my time with my daughter away from me.  You butt into this moment too?

“I remember you talking about that.  Makes more sense now, after this,” Camellia said.

“Okay,” Carson said. He’d replaced part of the bandage.  He put stuff back in order, then peeled out duct tape, as slowly as he could, to avoid making too much noise.  He sealed the outfit around the hole.  “I don’t think we can delay much longer.  We should-”

“I see you.”

“No,” Camellia’s voice was small.  Nearly a whimper.

Davie Cavalcanti.  His voice was tinny, and too loud, like it came through a megaphone.

Natalie’s eyes scanned the trees.  She couldn’t see him.

“You must have realized you’re surrounded. I’ve got eyes on you.  The fire is being taken care of.  It wasn’t a very big one.  The gas isn’t very strong.  Our drones have the ability to see the fumes.”

Mia, pulling out her phone, brought up the drone cameras.

Sure enough, there was one with a view of the trees.  Heat imaging.  Only glimpses of them were available through the relative coolness of the foliage, but a glimpse of bright red stood out.  They were centered in the camera.

A drone in the sky.  She could barely see it past the smoke and in the dark.  It was one of the massive ones he’d showed off during the dinner.

“I have to ask you two.  What was the point of all of this?  And I don’t mean this frankly insane attempt at attacking my home and family or framing me.  I’ll have you know the police have already confirmed that the scene you put together is a digital forgery.  The faces you tried to use are of people the police have already confirmed to be safe and sound.”

Carson looked over at Mia.

“He’s putting the limbless bodies on us.  He thought we’d take pictures and spread them around, to ruin him further,” Mia murmured.

“When I ask what the point is,” Davie’s voice came from a speaker on the drone.  “I mean the business.  You give people second chances, then drag them into this, use them as mercenaries?  Put their lives at risk?”

“What’s the point of what he’s doing?” Natalie asked.  “Why isn’t he shooting us?”

“He wants us alive. He has a veneer of acceptability with the police.  And he’s covered his bases.  We won’t shake that,” Carson said.

“We should move.  In case he changes his mind about shooting us,” Mia whispered.

Mia lurched to her feet, bringing Bryan with her.  Natalie gave Camellia a hand.

“Is it the money?” Davie asked.  “Ill gotten gains?  Your bank accounts are locked.  We’ve found at least two of your hiding spots.  One of them had laptops we’re working on breaking into.  Are we going to find bank accounts?”

Mia looked up at the sky, reacting to that.

“Whatever you’ve squirreled away won’t go far,” the broadcast voice taunted them.

Carson tried to stand and couldn’t.

He leaned back against a tree, looking up at Mia.

“No,” she said.

“What?” Camellia asked.  She seemed a bit dazed, but pulled herself together.

Davie’s voice went on in the background, talking about money.  The loss of the house.

“I think…” Carson took in a deep breath.  His expression looked pained for a second.  “I might have one more burst of activity in me.  I think I’d rather spend it shooting people who are after you.”

“And leave you behind?” Mia asked.

“No,” Camellia said, with a surge of emotion, a single syllable word made three by a hitch in her voice.

They were already spotted.  The fact Camellia was being louder than she should didn’t give much away.

“I was thinking about it,” Carson said, leaning back.  He moved his hand, pulling the material at his side taut.  Even through shirt and the plastic material, Natalie could see how grim his side was.  With stitches ripped open and the edges of the wound torn, it looked like some chihuahua sized animal was yawning midway through eating something alive- all blood, the bristling sutures sticking up and out, pointy and uneven edges, and raised flesh.  Blood soaked the surrounding clothing.  “Stiff to the touch.  Might be sepsis.  Heart’s racing, while the rest of me is moving slower, I’m chilly and sweating, and this whole business feels hot-”

He prodded around it, then winced.

“I need you with us,” Mia said.

“I’ve done a lot of stuff without second guessing you, without flinching, without any doubt,” Carson said, he put his head back as far as it would go.  “You’re brilliant and amazing, and I love you more than anything.  I love the kids.”

“Dad,” Camellia started, voice hitching, and she swayed-

Mia reached for Camellia, but Natalie was already putting her arms around her daughter’s shoulders.  Support, to keep her from collapsing.  A hug, because she didn’t want Camellia sad, whatever the reason, but it also meant she didn’t have to see Camellia’s face, and feel that knife twist as the girl felt something for Carson Hurst.

“-your crimes are well documented, your associations known.  State and federal authorities know about you-“

“No, sorry, I can’t accept that,” Mia said, ignoring Davie’s rambling above and around them.  “I need you with me.  I need that burst of energy with us.  Because I can’t keep going much longer.  I need your brain.  You complete me.  So get up.”

Carson let out a soft half-laugh.

“I know we fell into a relationship, we crossed paths when we found Tyr.  You stayed.  And I love you.  I know I don’t say it often enough.”

“That’s alright,” he said.  “I know.”

“If it was just love, me and you, I’d leave you to die how you want.  I’d miss the hell out of you.  But it’s not.  You stayed when our children are in the picture.”

They’re not yours, Natalie thought.  She squeezed Camellia harder.

“So you don’t get to stay down,” Mia told him.  “You don’t get to leave them fatherless.”

“Mia.  My love, my wife-”

She bent down, grabbed him by the collar, which included grabbing the breathing tube, and hauled.

The angle was awkward, and Mia had a scary strength to her, but Carson was a full grown man, and Bryan was still folded over one of Mia’s shoulders.  Another eighty to ninety pounds, maybe.

Natalie felt Camellia move, like she wanted to contribute.  Instead, making sure Camellia wouldn’t fall over the moment she let go, Natalie stepped in.  She lifted.

I don’t want you to die in front of Rip.  You’d be a fucking martyr.  Nobody would ever live up to you.  Not Sean, not me.

She wasn’t sure how true that rationale was, in her head.

That distilled anger that had chased her since she’d thought back to her time with Uncle Earl and her cousins, back to her pregnancy, and back to the origin of all of this, it helped.  With Mia, she lifted Carson up.  He leaned back, against the tree, now standing.  He bent over like he might throw up.

“Now we keep moving,” Mia said.

“Love…”

“No choice,” she told him.

“Okay.  My suit tore.”

“And?” Mia asked.

“I can smell the chemicals in the air, but it’s faint.  I feel like shit, but it’s not because of what I’m breathing all of a sudden.”

“It probably wouldn’t affect us.  Let’s keep the suits on,” Mia said.

“What do we think about the oxygen tanks?” Carson asked.

“Makeshift bomb.  But I don’t know what we’d achieve.  They have eyes on us.”

“If we break through the perimeter, we could cut a straight line through forest.  Keep going until we can’t keep going.”

“Bryan would die,” Natalie pointed out.

Carson looked over at the kid.

“So would you,” Mia said.

“Which isn’t an option.  Right.”

“Then we stay closer to the road,” Carson said.  “It makes a repeated ‘S’ shape going down the hill.  We get past, go around the curve.  Keep going down, it’s not far to the nearest parking lot.  Both of us know how to steal a car.”

“They’d chase.  Catch up with us,” Mia said.  “And they still have eyes on us.  We’re not fast enough.”

Carson looked skyward.

If there was a drone up there, Natalie couldn’t see it against the hazy night sky.

“Ben and Rider might be close,” Natalie said.

“Then that’s what we might try,” Mia said.  “Get past their lines.  Make it as far down as we can, call, as late as we can, in case they’re packet sniffing- eavesdropping.  And hope they can reach us before the police do.  But the moment we start disconnecting our oxygen tanks, and he catches that on the drones, Davie’s going to take that to mean the gas isn’t that bad, and send the cops in from every direction.

“Which means we have two,” Carson said, keeping his voice low, head bent.

“Two?” Natalie asked.

He indicated them with subtle gestures.  Bryan, folded over Mia’s shoulder like he was, had the tank pretty much in his lap.  Draped over her, it was out of sight.  And Mia had hers tucked into the sling that kept her arm stable.

“You want to take Bryan’s?” Natalie asked.

“I don’t want to.  But this is where we’re at.  Any ideas on how to do this?” he asked Mia.

“Phone?” she asked him.

He offered his.

“We’ll have to move as fast as we can.  This isn’t predictable or reliable,” she said.  “Duct tape.”

He had it at his belt.  He gave it over.

Davie was still talking.  Still taunting.

“-your own mother, Ripley’s supposed Grandmother, or she’d have to be, die alone.”

Camellia glanced at Mia.

“Don’t look, don’t react.”

“And you don’t seem to be about stopping me.  You’d have done better by Ben and Rider if that was the case.”

“Take Bryan?” Mia whispered.  “While I”m building a bomb?”

Natalie nodded.  They checked the coast was clear, because they didn’t want to be caught tampering with Bryan’s oxygen tank.  She took Bryan, carrying him in more of a fireman hold.

Natalie backed off, putting trees between Mia and herself, while carrying Bryan and supporting Camellia.  Bryan was so warm, and his breathing came out as wheezes and soft, wet coughs, but each cough prompted his entire body to curl up around her head.  Plastic rubbed against plastic.

“Leaving them out here, just the two of them?  Putting them in this dangerous a situation?  What did you expect?”

“He’s saying what he can, trying to get into our heads,” Mia murmured.  She worked, crouched, in a patch of thick foliage close to the edge of the road.  “Be ready.  A prick in the battery pack will cause electrolytes to flow into it.  Which release heat, which cause more openings, until fire.  And fire and an oxygen tank… There’s a chance this goes off in a minute.  And there’s a chance it doesn’t blow up at all.”

“Be careful,” Carson told her.

They lied like they breathed.  Leaving details out.  Mia didn’t mention that there was a chance this blew up in Mia’s face.

She nodded.

“So my question, Mia Hurst, is that if you aren’t about the second chances, the money, the ideology, keeping kids safe…

Natalie led Camellia further away.  Carson followed, not moving the arm he had pressed to one side, but using the other to push against trees, as if it was easier to careen from one tree to the next, stumbling, than to move under his own power.

She didn’t want them to be martyrs.  Natalie would always be second place to these ‘heroic’, brilliant, strange, eerily strong people, whose failings and flaws would be downplayed and ignored.

“…and if you aren’t about family, putting them in this situation, this danger, then what the hell are you?  What are you doing?  Except ruining lives.”

“Ruining yours,” Carson muttered.

Mia, jogging, caught up with them.  “Move.”

So they moved.  Mia took Bryan when they had thicker tree cover.

“One bomb, planted at one corner of the perimeter.  Next, further down.  Smoke, fire, distraction.  Maybe a chance to cross the road,” Mia muttered.

“What do you think happens after this?  Because I reached out to police, and news.  They have the full story.  The kidnapped girl, found.  Maimed by the Hurst kidnappers in their big attempt to recover her.  I promise you, she’ll be famous.  Her identity, in these vital adolescent years, will be the kidnapped girl.  The media will adore it.  They’ll never let up.”

Mia, pausing long enough to help Carson forward, glanced at Camellia.

“Don’t hesitate, you said.  Don’t react,” Natalie reminded her, hissing the words.

But Mia had.

“They’ll put cameras in her friend’s faces.  The teachers’.  In the face of everyone she knew or could know.  Thousands of videos on social media.  Do you think Ben Jaime is annoying?  Dozens, amateurs, will be crawling over her life, trying to build careers off of her pain.  The wounds will never heal because they’ll be constantly prodding at it.”

It felt like Davie had caught something of Mia reacting to what he was saying, with the way he was seizing on this.  Almost gleeful in it.

“Mom,” Camellia whispered, to Mia.  “It’s fine.  We’ll ignore it.”

Mia nodded.  But the look in her eyes didn’t go away.

Mia’s reaction was more fitting than Camellia’s.  It wouldn’t be fine.  Natalie had experienced only a taste of that media circus, when things had gone south with the Camellia Pink/Teale Blue charity.  How bad it could all get.  How oppressive it would be, invading every corner of one’s life.  How that kind of negative scrutiny played off of every bit how humans were social animals.

How, if they looked at every bit of you, from corner to corner, your earliest days to the now, your hopes and dreams, dug into who you were as a person, and then said even the smallest negative thing about you, it felt like every last one of them had judged you and found you wanting.

The same if it was something you’d put your heart into.  For Natalie, that had been the charity.  Wanting to find Camellia.  Then, if she couldn’t have that, wanting others to have their own finds.  She’d put her soul into her work, every waking moment, some days.  Her everything.  And they’d condemned it.

She knew how that judgment or that condemnation could break your heart.  How it could make you want to die.

Mia wouldn’t have experienced that.  She’d evaded her whole life, built a new life, covered her trail.  But, Natalie had thought, maybe in the course of that, she’d gained some awareness of what it could be, and what she was avoiding.  Maybe she’d even watched what Natalie had done and experienced with the charity.

“There will always be pity, when they look at her.  Because of what you did.  She’ll wonder, every time she makes a fast friend or finds a boy that likes her, is it because of that minor celebrity?  Is it because they feel sorry for her, or they think they can use her?”

No.  Mia looked like it was only occurring to her now.

The only way it was ever going to be escapable is if you got rid of Ben and I… or if we forfeited Camellia altogether.

“It’s okay,” Natalie said, supporting Camellia.  Telling Camellia, who didn’t seem to understand.  “Its handled.”

“What are you talking about?” Mia asked.

“It’s handled.  I was in the wings when two people got their children back.  I saw what happened, I played a bit part, I’ve been thinking about the aftermath of this for years. I’ve made plans, taken measures.  Cam- Ripley doesn’t have anything to worry about.  None of what that man is talking about.”

“My name is Ripley,” Camellia said.

“I know.”

“You almost said that other name.  The horrible one.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want the news and stuff talking about it like he’s saying.”

“They won’t.”

“Or using that name so much that people at school start using it?”

It looked like Camellia was realizing how out of control this could get.  This angle wasn’t what Natalie had expected but… she was realizing.

“I promise you, that will not happen.”

“It might if you slip up and use that name.”

“I used it because it’s the name I’ve thought about and used in my head every hour for your entire life.  I’m tired, we’re all tired.  Let’s focus on getting out of here.”

“I don’t think you can stand in the way of something like that,” Mia said.  “The media juggernaut.”

“Watch me,” Natalie replied, even more pissed off now.

It was all so fucked up.

The sirens were still going, but, Natalie realized, Davie’s voice had stopped coming through the drone that was tracking them overhead.

“Careful,” Carson murmured.  He really was struggling, going downhill faster than Camellia had, and Camellia had lost an arm.  “Feels like killer instinct.  Stick to thicker groups of trees.  Don’t stop moving.”

“I might need to,” Mia told him.

“If I can’t stop, you can’t stop.  Feels dangerous.”

“Feels?” Natalie asked.

“This is what Carson’s good at,” Mia responded.  “I believe him.”

“Oh, thank you, love,” Carson murmured.

“I’m tired,” Camellia said.

She felt tired.  She was hanging more and more off of Natalie, pulling on Natalie’s arm to get her feet high up enough, any time the ground was anything but flat.  When her balance wasn’t perfect, she swayed, pulling, or leaned into Natalie.

“Get to the road.  I wanted to go further, to split them more.  But-”

The moment Mia started to move back down toward the road, there was a distant crack.

A rustling of leaves.  A ‘pff’ sound, and pine needles scattered.

From overhead.

“This way,” Carson said, and he very nearly fell over, trying to pivot.  Only the fact there was a rock outcropping sticking out of the slope kept him from falling across the ground.

Mia and Natalie tried to give him a hand.  Another shot fired.

This one hit the rock Carson was leaning against.  Flecks of rock and debris made Natalie come very close to losing her balance, pulling Carson over with her.

Camellia shrieked, and the sound felt like it came from far away.

She hadn’t been hit, Natalie realized, as she fumbled her way to a standing position.  Just scared.

“No, Weiss,” Davie’s voice came through the drone’s speakers.

“Fuck me.  There,” Carson said.

He could barely lift his hand to point.  He got it four-fifths of the way.

Natalie only belatedly realized why Davie had said what he’d said, and why Carson had cussed.  Further up the path was a man in green, bringing his rifle to rest against his shoulder as he stepped out of view.

“He’s a sadist,” Carson said, quiet.  “He likes hurting people.  It’s why he wanted to say all he said.  Then… fell silent.  Dunno why.  Maybe people brought him information.  He saw we- organizing.  He wants us scared, low.”

Mia had the phone with the drone cameras on it.  She motioned.  They moved.  Trying to move to where the trees blocked the drone as it slowly drifted through the air above them.  Trying to stay out of sight of the hunter.  ‘Weiss’.

Carson held onto branches for balance.  “He’ll shoot the person he thinks causes the most hurt.  Probably nonlethal, if he can manage it.  Probably Ripley.”

Natalie pulled Camellia closer.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.  “Don’t mean to scare you, Rip.”

“I don’t think the first bomb is going off,” Mia said.  “Means we have to drop this one, double back.”

There was another shot.  A miss.  Or something to keep them scared, if Carson was right.

“Might be hard,” Carson said.  “I’m not sure-”

“You’ll manage,’ Mia said.

He scoffed.

“You are in our sights,” Davie’s voice came from the drone.

Ripley let out a shuddering breath, shrinking closer to Natalie.

Such a terrible moment, and a beautiful one.

She thought of Sterling.

“If you move, if you take any further action to threaten that child, or point that weapon at her, we will fire.”

“Making it sound good for the police, then,” Carson said, eyes closed as he rested for a second.

“We need you to release the boy into our custody.  We will do this one by one, retrieving hostages and arresting those who surrender.”

Picking someone who couldn’t move under their own power.

Natalie wasn’t even sure the bombs would have worked.

This wasn’t so different from what she’d been thinking about before.  Giving her all, and then feeling destroyed when that was attacked.

She felt destroyed right now, and she wasn’t nearly as hurt as anyone else.

“Ripley,” she said.  “I know I’m asking a lot.  I know I’ve messed up.  I’m not used to situations like this, I-”

“Neither am I.  And you made it so much harder.”

Natalie closed her eyes.  Took a second.  She nodded.

“I don’t think it was every a situation that was going to be easy, but-”

“But you made it harder.”

“I did.  I’m sorry.  I really am.  And I know I’m asking a lot.  But could I hear you call me mom, just once?  Or mama?  Anything- anything works.”

The sirens wailed in the background.

Foliage rustled as Mia twisted around, checking the hunter wasn’t approaching.

“I don’t-” Ripley started.  She stopped when Natalie opened her eyes and looked at her.

The sirens finished winding down from one of their wails, others picking up the cry as the prior ones faltered.

“I wouldn’t- I don’t see you-”

“It’s okay,” Natalie said.

It took her a second.

“This is your final warning.  Do not point that weapon at Ripley.”

“Don’t take her out of Sean’s life,” Natalie said.  She stood up, putting herself between the drone and Camellia, raising a hand.  It felt ridiculous, as if her hand could stop the bullet if he decided to pull the trigger.  Which he could and would do, for jollies.  “Give Sean a chance to know her, give her a chance to know him.  Give her her friends.  We were talking, when we were chained up.  I know how important they are to her, now. With my things, at the place I’m renting, there’s contact information for an Alison Rouse.  Between her and Ben, they can handle the media frenzy.  Tell her I sent you… tell her…”

Natalie wished, desperately, that she’d shared something with the lawyer.  Something personal and vital that would shed some light on things.

She’d barely shared with Sean.  The man she’d thought she would marry, eleven and a half years ago.

“Tell her I cried in front of her and I had a dribble of snot from my nose nearly to my lap.  That I said to say that, so she could know I sent you.”

“What are you doing?” Mia asked.

“I don’t know.  Trying to buy a chance.”

“Specifically?”

“I’m walking over there,” Natalie said, taking the first step.  “If I can get his attention, get him talking to me… he’s watching and directing the drone stuff, right?”

Mia stared at her, then nodded.

“Get Rip out of here?” Carson asked.  “Be careful.”

“You have to follow.”

“I know.”

Mia lurched to her feet, and reached for Camellia.

Was there an other way?  Natalie couldn’t carry Bryan as far as they needed to go, or handle the bomb.  Neither could Carson.

She’d thought about dying before because of those two monsters.  Now she faced a very real possibility… she’d die for them?

No.  For Camellia.

Ripley.

“There’s a solid chance he puts bullets in each of your limbs.  That you end up in that basement.”

She’d already felt like she was going to ugly cry, sobbing with her face screwed up.  That didn’t help.  She was on the verge.

“If I do…”

“Don’t believe anything he says that you don’t see with your own two eyes.  If he doesn’t show you Ripley, verfiable, not a manipulated image, then he didn’t get her.  We got away.”

“Okay.  And if I get through…”

“He wants pain.  He wants to be the architect of that pain.  He wants control.  More than he wants the pain.”

Natalie’s mind felt so numb with the emotion that burned inside her that she barely felt like she could string two thoughts together, let alone commit that to memory.

“Fuck you, so much, for everything you’ve done, everything you contributed to,” she told him.

“Sure,” he said, as if those words meant anything at all.

“Give Sean a chance.”

“We’ll see.”

He was a monster, as bad as Davie.  He couldn’t even lie?

She swayed on the spot.  Hearing that, she didn’t want to leave.

But what would staying achieve?  Carson was right.  Davie would shoot Camellia.

She looked in the direction she had to go.

“You scared the shit out of her.  Out of Mia.”

Natalie met his eyes.  Looking past her fogged mask, past his.

“I asked her once, about the second chances.  Where you stood, with that.”

Natalie swallowed hard.

“She said,” Carson murmured, “that if you got your second chance, she’d lose hers.”

Natalie felt her skin crawl, as she digested that.

“She’d dedicated her life to helping others.  It bothered her for a long time.  Ate at her.  Until she came to that resolution.  That if she helped enough people, she could be selfish this once.”

“Are you bullshitting me?”

“I’m actually not.”

“Or trying to fuck with my head, right at the end?  Telling me some lie, to-”

“I’m not.”

Natalie’s face screwed up.  She felt hate like she hadn’t yet.

“I’m not sure she even remembers.  I think she might have blocked that out or pushed it to the back of her mind.  The same way you did with the fact it was over thirty minutes that you left that child in that car.”

Natalie shook her head.

“Yes.”

“You’re saying this like you want me to change my mind and go after her and try to murder her.”

“You won’t.  You’re more a mom to Camellia Teale than you are a killer.”

“You’re calling her-”

“You’re attached to your daughter.  That girl with Mia isn’t her.  Same DNA, but… she’s not your Camellia.  Mia took that when she took her and raised her.”

“How are you okay with that?”

“Oh, I like the idea she’s done so much good that it makes it okay.  Wouldn’t it be nice if the world worked like that?”

A complete and total monster.  He didn’t flinch.

A gunshot made her jump out of her skin.

“But I’m biased.  I love that woman.  I think that gunshot’s telling you to go,” Carson said.  “Drone’s right above us.  Focused on you.  If he’s curious, sate that curiosity.”

She turned, raising her hands.

Heart pounding ten times more than she’d ever experienced before.  To the point she wondered if she could have a heart attack, right here.  Or be sick, inside her mask and this outfit.

She walked out to the treeline.

Behind her, Carson staggered in the direction Mia had gone.

Then, resolute, knowing that there was a very real chance he would shoot her and maximize pain, drawing things out, she stepped past that threshold, where solid wood provided some protection and cover.

Past that first shallow ditch, which was awkward for a jump but too wide for a step.  Onto that narrow strip of gravel with grass growing through it.  Onto road.

With arms raised, she didn’t want to peek out past her arms and the material enshrouding them.  She wondered if her arms would even slow the bullet or protect her.  Even if they didn’t, she didn’t want to lower them.

She reached that dotted yellow line.

The crack of the rifle shot stopped her in her tracks.

She heard the shot before she felt it.

It struck the road right in front of her foot.  She could feel the impact of it through her sore feet, which only had socks on, velcro straps keeping the hard soles of the suit firmly against the bottom of her foot.

“Don’t move.  You have three guns pointed at you right now.”

Weiss, the hunter, hadn’t been that far behind her.  He approached her.

The three guns would be him, his fellow hunter, who stood beside a car, smoking, and the drone in the sky, which watched Natalie.

He patted her down, head to toe, a handkerchief, of all things, pressed to his lower face.

“My draw is faster than yours.  Don’t try anything.

“I’m not going to.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Pulling off the gear.  The oxygen tank was examined, then thrown aside, left to roll down the grassy slope and into the ditch.

He had her remove her mask.  Hair was still stuck across her face, plastered down with sweat that felt icy in the driving wind, and then prickled when hot smoke blew up the hill from the fire Rider and Ben had set to her.  Into her eyes.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, in response to smoke, and everything else.

After the initial patdown, outside the suit, one cloth held to his mouth, he moved the strap with the adhesive that covered the zippers and other built-in gaps, unzipped, and did another, thorough body check.

She could smell the concentrated fumes, with everything gone.  Her lungs hurt, dragging in hot, warm air instead of breathing the air from the oxygen tank.

She’d already had everything in her possession taken away when she was brought into captivity in that basement.  She’d had Camellia, though.  Ripley.

Weiss signaled his partner, further down the road, by a car.  The partner raised an arm in response, fingers splayed.

Now, with nothing, the individual fibers of the socks catching on the small edges of the road underfoot, tiny bits of resin, she walked the rest of the way across the street.  Weiss kept a gun trained on her as she hopped the ditch.

Davie walked from a bit further east to meet her.  There were officers with him.

“You’re not the little boy we asked for.  The mayor’s son.”

“Bryan.  He’s shot.”

“That was a stupid thing to do.”

By you, by your guys.

“I’m wearing socks with pine needles stuck to the bottoms, I’m sweating so much it feels like someone poured a bucket of ice water down my back.  I’m empty handed.  I don’t feel very smart.”

Davie smiled.

“Are you taking responsibility for the shooting of the boy, then?” one of the officers asked.

Natalie shook her head, mute now.

“Take her into custody, put her in the back of a car.  She’s a co-conspirator.”

“I wanted to let you know, Bryan’s not able to move, everyone’s hurt.  Everyone’s hurt and tired, if you can organize a medic, someone to take Bryan away-”

“Don’t engage.  Don’t spoil our investigation,” Davie told the officers.  “Don’t talk to her, don’t feed her information.  Don’t give her anything.”

“They’re broken, defeated, they want to negotiate a surrender.  You win,” Natalie said.

“We can negotiate with the lines of communication we’ve already opened.  No need for you to be a part of this.  Back of the car.”

“Move,” an officer barked.

Natalie cooperated.

She didn’t try to say anything.  Davie was watching and listening.  Her head hung.  Her hurt was evident.  The fact he wasn’t willing to be baited into a longer conversation…

It made her contribution to all of this feel so minor, every emotion became bitterness.

Ripley had acted more upset about Carson not being able to get up than she had over Natalie preparing to die.  Or worse.

The hunter had left.

The officers on this were focused on the situation, with only a couple nearby, monitoring the car, with one window rolled down to access the radio, which had been moved to the front seat, so they could reach in.

“Adult suspect three has been apprehended,” one reported, to the radio.

Natalie endured another rough pat-down from the woman officer, while the male read her her rights.  She acknowledged them in turn.  Then she ducked into the back seat, hands cuffed in front of her.

The officers stepped away, talking.  The window on the driver’s side was open, but Natalie couldn’t make out the words.

This was it?

She’d bought a small amount of time.  Was she meant to fight?  She’d– she’d never fought when she should have.  She’d gotten him to smile.

Had she thought that getting him to smile again, or getting him to laugh like he had before that macabre dinner, might curry favor, or distract him?

She hadn’t– she hadn’t thought at all.  She wasn’t good at thinking when a bad situation jangled her nerves.

Why hadn’t she said something to the officers?

Were they trustworthy, even?

Or was she going to get put in that basement and left to think about what she could’ve done for decades?

The male officer walked around the car, to the open window.  He stopped there, looking at her.

“You’re subdued.”

Natalie nodded.

“You good?”

“Not especially.  Water would be nice.  I sweated gallons in that suit.”

“Yeah.  You won’t try anything?”

She shook her head.

“Give me a sec.”

He popped the trunk, came back with a water bottle and a plastic straw, and motioned for her to lean forward.  She did, eyes closed, forehead resting against the metal grille.  He put the straw into place, and she drank, greedily.  The entire bottle.

“Won’t be long.”

She finished drinking, slurping.  “If they’re asking for another hostage, it probably won’t work.  People are hurt.”

“We’ll see.  I hope you’re wrong.”

“They had us on camera, with the drone, and asked for the person who couldn’t move.  Accused us of-”

“Can’t talk to you about that.  It’s out of my hands, anyway.”

Right.

Right, yeah.

“Thank you, for the water.”

“Finished that right off.  Don’t go asking for a bathroom break in five seconds.  I’d rather have the crew back at the station hose out the back seat than make this complicated.”

“I’ll try not to.”

He crushed the bottle before recapping it.  The noise made Natalie flinch.

“What do I recognize you from?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“Or where, or why do you seem familiar?”

“Oh.  I was in the news when my daughter was taken.  The Pink-Teale campaign?  For missing kids.”

“That’s it.  Yep, that’d be it.  That was a horrific image you used for the posters and stuff.”

“It wasn’t ever going to be a happy picture.”

“Whatever happened with that?”

“We had a bad year with funding, government shutdown, no grants, no bonds, police striking, no headway, I was focused on other things.  Someone looked at the numbers, where it was all allocated, with the numbers we had, and it looked-”

“I meant-”

“-bad.  Crushing.”

“I meant with you.  How’d you get from there to here?”

“An amateur journalist offered to help find my girl.  I went with him.  We found the culprit.  And right when I thought I had her, we got stuck in the middle of something big and ugly.”

“They’re saying you hurt kids.”

“I… fucked up with my daughter.  I thought it’d go differently.  I hurt her.  Emotionally, I guess.  Got it wrong.  And I’m worried if I stayed, I’d keep getting it wrong.  Makes me want to die.  Which is why I was- I was willing to walk over.  Despite the risk.”

“I was changing my kid, years ago and she hucked herself over the edge of the changing table while I was reaching for the diapers.  Right onto hard floor.  Took her straight to the hospital.  Bawled like the biggest fucking bitch you ever heard.  My wife didn’t forgive me for months.  Then it happened to her.  Not as bad- carpet. But… shit happens.  Now I dread everything I’m saying being something that’s going to end up coming up in therapy, couple decades.”

“I left her… in a hot car.  I was tired, had no help, I looked away for…”

She blinked hard.  Her voice caught, and didn’t really fight the crack that resulted.

“…too long.  Then she was gone.  My life was over.  Or it felt like it was.  And I couldn’t pull it together enough for my other kid.”

“Then you hurt others?”

Natalie shook her head.  “Just my own kid.  Not understanding.  The life they gave her is still her life.  As… fucked as that is.”

“But Bryan getting hurt like he was?”

She shook her head.

“They seem pretty sure you did.”

“Is the idea that Davie Cavalcanti over there is some… official?  Federal government?”

“No.  Local business.  The chief said to listen to him, cooperate.  Pulled us out of the strike because the mayor’s kid is part of it.  Over at Mr. Cavalcanti’s house for a family event.”

“And the idea is we attacked, took people hostage?”

The officer gave her a funny look.  “Yeah.”

Natalie glanced over.  She was prepared to rest her head against the window, look bored, or try to hide that she was engaging.

Doing that, she could see that Davie, off to the side, was coughing.

Was that why he went silent for patches, when giving his long speech? Natalie wondered.  From the gas?

“Are you asking why because something about this feels off?” Natalie asked, quiet.

“Why?” the man asked her.

Already leaning over, she brought her leg up onto the back seat, and pulled her pants leg up.

The mark from the shackle was still there.  Red, rubbed raw, bruising and a crease where it had dug into her lower leg.  Leg stubble rubbed off.

“He had me in his basement.  My daughter too.”

“That man over there did.”

“Davie Cavalcanti.  Yes.”

“Mariscal,” he said.  Not a shout, but not quiet either.

“Don’t-”

Davie, finishing coughing, was looking.

The woman officer walked over, thumbs hooked at the edges of her vest.

A moment later, her skull shattered.  A bullet hit the top of her head with enough force that it seemed to lift her up another half-foot mid-stride.  Skin separated from bone and bone separated into fragments.  After that initial impact, the area around her forehead and the crown of her head all folded in, toward the brain, in sync with the moment Natalie registered the sound.  She flopped to the ground.  Natalie wasn’t sure if she heard the spatter and small pieces hitting the ground after everything else, or if it was imagination.  The sirens screamed around them.

“I said-!” Davie called out, gun raised.

Natalie shrieked, ducking low.

Bullets went through glass and car door.  But it wasn’t aimed at Natalie.

“-not to engage with her!”

“What?  Fuck me, no,” the officer said.  Audible through the open window.

Davie kept shooting.  In the midst of it all, he said, “Yeah.”

Another shot.

“Thank you,” Davie said, calm.

Two more shots.

“Open my door!” Natalie screamed.

The car lacked the stopping power against bullets.  It barely sufficed as cover.

Natalie curled up in the back seat, hands cuffed in front of her.

The door opened.

And she pushed her way out.

Keeping the engine block between her and Davie felt like a safer bet.  Maybe.  Maybe people would tell her she was stupid, she’d get blown up.  She really didn’t know.

The ‘thank you’ had been because Davie was putting in an order.

The military drone buzzed the treetops, stopped in the air above the narrow clearing with the cars parked partway down it and aimed at the officer.

The man raised his arms.

He was going to give the order.

Natalie grabbed the edge of the handcuff, and staggered away from the car.  Not toward Davie- he was off to the side of her.

The pain she experienced was so bad it made muscles all up her arm jump, signals across her body telling her no.  Emotions blinded her.  An anger that went back twenty-five years, every bit of bitterness and hurt from everything she’d experienced at the hands of the Hursts, the fact Ripley was hurting more than she ever could, in more ways than she could, that Sterling was confused and scared, and anger at herself, that her last exchanges had been ones that hurt Ripley more, and maybe one Ripley would regret, not giving her that ‘mama’.

With all of that, Natalie was able to push past the physical pain.  She dragged a handcuff past her wrist and past her hand, taking what felt like half the skin and meat from the outside edge of her thumb.  Her thumbnail was briefly visible, barely attached, before the moment the metal came free.

Cuffs around one wrist, hand gripping the hinge, other hand bleeding badly, she tackled him to the ground.

This entire fucking time, he’d been focused on Mia and Carson.  Hurting other people to get to her.

Then, in this moment, his focus was on the officer on the other side of the car, in the drone’s sights.  A man with a gun.  While Natalie was small, cuffed, inoffensive.

He coughed, and her fingernails clawed at his face.  Less to do damage, more to- to scrabble upward, to dig fingernail into flesh and pull herself up to sit across his pelvis, to be in a better position to block the gun.  She saw it, and moved to the side, hip against his arm.  Not quite sitting on it.  but close.

With her left hand, cuff around it, she backhanded the phone out of his hand, then punched him.  She saw his face twist away, heard the coarse cough, and punched him in the neck.  More the side of the neck than anything.  The ring of the closed cuff, still with bloody tissue attached to it, punched into flesh.  The hinge dug into the base of her hand.

And then he started hitting back.  In her side.  Grabbing her shoulder.

He was bigger, stronger.  He’d been in fights.  He’d maybe trained.

She was partially on top of him, and the crystal clear thought that this was the man who’d taken her daughter’s arm sat suspended in an ocean of red.

Her daughter.

He was strong enough he was winning the wrestling match, getting her off of him, and she turned instead to adding another appendage to the mix.  Her mouth opened, teeth bared, as she tried to get at his throat.  He grabbed her hair, sacrificing leverage, pulling her away.  Tucking chin closer to collarbone.

Her damaged right hand now free, with more leverage, found its way to his face.  Groped, unable to find purchase, not accurate, as if it wasn’t even her hand.

Every moment she felt hesitation, or awareness of what this situation was, that thought, quietly horrified, numb, pure, cleared the way.  He’d hurt her daughter.

She pushed her damaged thumb into his eye socket.

He moved his head.  She hadn’t had the leverage.  But that eye squinted, filled with her blood, from the open wound.

Fingernails dragged.  He stopped trying to grab for her hair.  Twisted his body.

Kneed her in the side so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Suffocating in the moments after, from the pain, she tried her damndest to put her knee into his groin.  She couldn’t knee it- she was slightly too high up, but if she could put her entire body weight on it, crush–

He drove his knee into her again.  Ribs, this time.

The drone moved steadily around them.

Assuming it was a man loyal to him on the other side… if it had a good shot, it’d shoot her.  She leaned harder into his arm.

Somewhere distant, there was an explosion.  The oxygen tank bomb.

She punched, barely aware of where her punches were landing.  If she hit dirt beside his head, she pushed her hand against that dirt for leverage.  She scratched with her other hand, punched when she didn’t need the arm to hold her upper body up.

Punching the side of his face with the ring of the handcuff, she hit hard enough the cuffs popped open.

She used that hooked end, too wide to be a blade, exactly, and dug.  A part of her wanted to penetrate the eardrum, as a flash of one of the deafened, dismembered people crossed her mind.  But she ended up placing it closer to temple.

And, shifting her weight, she pulled.  She got her other hand around it.  Dragging the spike of the handcuff through skin of temple to cheek.

She almost lost her balance when it came free.  Losing all leverage.  Everything that remained.  She came up too high, in the drone’s sights.  She fell, almost lying across him, against the one arm.

Then, belated, the hooked end of the open handcuff hit something hard.

Teeth.

From temple to cheek, into open mouth, raking hard teeth.  Catching.  Pulling his mouth open.

Her damaged hand was so hurt it wouldn’t open.  So she used her forearm.  Smashing it.  Trying to drive that hook into the floor of his mouth.  And she didn’t quite manage it.

He pulled away, grimacing, coughing, and in the moment that followed, the one eye that was in position to look up or over at her, was the eye that was squinting shut with blood.

Holding that hooked end of the handcuff with two hands, she put it against the side of his neck and pushed down with enough force that it penetrated skin, sinking inward.

A part of her needed to scream, something primal, to let all of the hurt out.  To somehow free those images of the dismembered people from the darkest parts of her mind.  The images of Ripley’s expressions.  The years of worrying, wondering, hating.

But she was too hurt to.  Or the hurt was too big.

A twist, while that serrated edge of the cuff was inside the side of his neck, and then she pulled with all her strength.

⯁

The world was too bright.

Every inch of her seemed to hurt.  Some from fatigue, from trying and failing to sleep on concrete, then marching down a hillside  Some from being beaten, and being too insensate with rage to feel it in the moment of the beating.

It was a hospital.  But there were no hospital noises.  No steady beeps.  People milled up and down a crowded hall.  Someone further down the hallway called for a nurse.

No power, again, she supposed.  Generator not working?

She didn’t want to hear any beeps ever again.  It would remind her of that basement.

So she sat, awkwardly, where no position was comfortable.  A stiff bandage made it impossible to open or close her hand, or to see the damage.  It hurt.  Her face hurt worse.

There was an eerie sort of peace in… whatever this was.  She didn’t know if she was under arrest- no cuffs.  Or if the Cavalcantis were going to exact revenge.  She didn’t know if Mia and Carson Hurst were already in Canada.  Or wherever.

“Awake?”

She started to talk, but found her face too swollen.

“You’re lucky,” a nurse told her.  She was helping another patient reposition.  Someone who’d been burned.

Lucky?  Maybe, if she was here, and not in a basement.

“Not everyone gets a bed.  We’ve got patients lying across rows of chairs.  We are going to be moving some patients into here to clear the hallway.  But some people liked you.  They wanted you looked after.”

Mia worked in hospital administration.  Had it been Mia?

“Who?” Natalie croaked.

“Police?  You saved his life, he said.”

Natalie nodded.

“Get that man’s number, in case you get any speeding tickets, huh?” the nurse joked.  “And something about the mayor’s son?  I don’t know how you begin to cash that in but there you go.  Good for you.”

Natalie smiled as best as she was able, which wasn’t very much.

A horrible sadness surged in her chest, as if the small amount of relief wasn’t allowed, without answer.  She had to fight it, to avoid breaking into sudden, inexplicable sobs.  If she did, her ribs and stomach wouldn’t tolerate it.

“A man, a boyfriend?  He said he’d drop in to visit this afternoon.  He was keeping an eye on things.  He’d bring someone else- I forget the relation.  Then, everything going well, he’ll bring your son?  If you want?”

Natalie nodded as much as she was able.  “Brown skin?  Crazy eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“Daughter?”

“Hm?” the nurse asked.  She was distracted by her work with the other patient, hidden from view by a curtain.

“Sorry.  Was there a girl?  Eleven?  I have a daughter.”

“I don’t think so.  But it’s honestly all a blur.  I’ve been busy, nonstop.”

“‘Course,” Natalie said, past a lump in her throat.

Had she blacked out?  Or passed out from exhaustion?

Had she hurt her head?  She didn’t remember anything from the time between her confrontation with Davie and getting here.

Why hadn’t the drone operator gunned her down, the moment she passed out?  Or whatever else?

No loyalty?  What he’d set up hadn’t mattered in the right way?

It, as an attached thought, was a quietly disconcerting thing to Natalie, that the charity might have been the thing to open the door to the officer looking at her.  Listening to her.

That those instincts, to play along, to wait, might have been some small part of why Davie hadn’t done more against her.

For years, those sorts of things had been such massive sources of regret.

She reminded herself that the Hursts had her daughter.  To keep herself from being too relieved.  Too okay with this.

“Miss Roy, I’ve got other patients to check on, but I will be back…” the Nurse said, as she checked a chart.

Then she looked at Natalie.  Quizzical.

“You are miss Roy?  Or Mrs.?  I believe we got your ID from family…”

Natalie swallowed hard.  The nurse brought a clear plastic bag with things inside.  Including a wallet.  The same sort of bag Camellia- Ripley’s things had been put in.

Lorraine Roy.

To give her a clearer escape route?  To keep enemies like the Cavalcantis from finding her?

“Changed with marriage,” Natalie managed.  “Still not used to it.  I thought for a second you had my mother in law in the next bed.”

“Can you imagine?” the nurse tittered.  She handed over the bag.  “Though you might wish you had a more empty room with just your mother in law in it, after we move people in here.  It’s going to be hell, I’m sorry.  Please bear with us.”

“I’m okay,” Natalie managed to utter the words.  Her teeth hurt.  She wondered if they were loose.  The ID had a list of contact information for people that weren’t her people.  And on the back of that card was a scribbled phone number with four letters.  CMRT.  “Been there.  Clawed my way out.”

“You sure look it, Lorraine.  I’ll check back in on you soon.”

“Mm.”

She stared at the card for a long, long time.

---

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“Patience,” Mia said, with an eerie calm, as they watched people prepare to burn the house.

The inside of the suit Natalie was wearing was already moist, body heat and sweat making the material stick to her skin.  Her breath fogged up the full-face plexiglass pane, hot, but the air she sucked in through the plastic mouthpiece was so cold it made her teeth and lungs hurt.

Sterling sometimes screamed for her because he thought there were monsters.  She’d sort any wet pajama, wet sheet situation, then take him to her room,  and let him sleep beside her.

These people were monsters, she imagined, in the same way Sterling imagined them.

She’d wondered once if there might be a situation where she found Camellia, and the mom could turn out to be someone who’d been broken by a tragedy, or some mental illness… because who else would do this sort of thing?  If it was someone who cried and begged forgiveness?  Where, she wondered, was the line where she could be the greater person and forgive them?

So much of her life had been spent wondering.  Trying to find herself when it felt like her heart had been ripped out of her chest, and the rest of her could barely keep upright.  She’d defined herself around hypotheticals.  What if Camellia was traumatized?  What if they literally couldn’t help it?  What if it was a misunderstanding, somehow?

Then they’d been the opposite of all of that.  Intentional, unapologetic, unflinching.

Unflinching even in the face of this horror all around them.  They were calm and methodical, braving gunshots, poisoning people.  This was a space where every step made Natalie want to curl up and hide from it all, because the danger was everywhere, people willing to overlook the butchering of a child were surrounding them, and these two moved like fish in water.

As if they’d been here before.

“Have you been in this house before?” Natalie asked, and her voice was heavily muffled by the apparatus.  Could they have sabotaged mine?

“No.  We passed through to get to you.  The rest is information I was able to scrape together.  Maps from Valentina.  I searched social media for photos,” Mia said.  “And it was hell, not coming immediately for Ripley-”

It was hell for you?

Natalie felt contempt and hatred on a level she’d never known was possible.

“-but I had to know if there was a way into the vents, an angle we could take.  I needed to be sure we could find our way around,” Mia said.

“What are you thinking, love?” Carson asked.

Love?

“Did you check the stairwell?”

“Pool of open flame.  Contained by concrete and the metal door,” Carson said.

“That would be the gas reacting with the gasoline.  That was the explosion we heard earlier.  I’m surprised there wasn’t more in the ducts.  A part of me wants to wait this out.  If he sets fire to the house, but the basement is reasonably secure, we could hole up here, take computers, watch the drones and see if there’s an opening.”

“It could give him time to get his feet under him,” Carson said.

“It could also give him time to lose them.  Hospitals are overtaxed and out of resources, his doctors are downstairs, he has to have fifty to a hundred people out there with some symptoms of gas inhalation.  Look.”

Carson nodded before she even pointed at the screen.

People outside coughed.

“This is where I need you to tell me if my instincts are right,” Mia told Carson.

“They’re outside the reach of the gas,” Carson said.  “Some gas inhalation.  Probably smoke too.  They’re gathering into familiar groups.  Those groups are finding the like-minded.”

He startled Natalie by turning, his focus turning to Camellia.

Natalie stepped a bit in front of the kids, shielding them from that focus.

Carson barely seemed to notice she was there, his focus on Camellia.  “They’re hurt and scared and frustrated.  They want to be with their friends and family.  They’re building up courage, because they want to leave.”

Camellia nodded.

“If he sets fire to the house, the last Cavalcanti holdout…” Mia said, trailing off.

“They’ll break.  I think he thinks he can rebuild.  He still has the key pieces under his thumb.  Like Bryan’s dad.”

The first flame appeared.  They were acting.

“He’ll move forward with it.  Are we thinking basement?” Carson asked, his voice muffled by mask.

“No,” Mia replied.  “Gasoline is blocking the clearest exit, and I think if we go past the hole they chopped into the floor, especially feet first, we run the risk of tearing a suit and inhaling gas.”

“Then we exit?” Carson asked.

“I think so.  There are three workable exits.  There are also windows, but I’m suspicious they’re bulletproof.  Nobody broke or opened a window when the gas flooded the house, they haven’t shot out any windows,” Mia said.  “We take the best route of the three.  It’s going to be either down the hall and to the left, straight down the hall, or out the front door.”

“Which cameras?”

“Three, six, and eight are down the hall and to the left.  Four, five, and seven are straight down the hall.  One and two are front door.  Nine is-”

“The driveway.”

“You have to reframe it in your head.”

“We may have to shoot our way clear.”

“If we do, we bring all stragglers to our location.”

On camera, Davie Cavalcanti, coughing a little, lit the rag.  He made the opening throw.

Natalie turned.  If that was at the front door, then-

“Wait,” Mia said.

Still so calm.

They were legitimate, actual psychopaths.

No, Mia Hurst was trembling.  Eager anticipation?  It was hard to tell.  Natalie moved closer, pretending to get a look at the cameras.  She saw Mia’s focus.

On the other side of the woman was Carson.  He looked casual.  Downstairs, she’d had a better look at him, without the plastic suit, gloves, booties, hood, and mask on.  A panther of a man, exuding raw sex, easy confidence and competence.  It bothered her, in a clenched-fist in her lower belly kind of way, that the kidnapper had that.  That Camellia said her ‘parents’ loved each other.  That he called her ‘love’ so easy, and the best Natalie had had was being turned down by Ben.  A mug made by Sterling.

It was hard not to drown in the bitterness.  It was hard not to choke on it all.  That her life had been taken from her, to the degree it had.  That she’d been changed as a person into someone this bitter, capable of feeling hate.

Enough that if Camellia wasn’t here, watching, she’d feel tempted to tear Mia Hurst’s mask off.  Let her suffocate on this air.  Even if it meant Carson attacking her, removing her mask, if she could watch that woman die painfully, she’d accept the same for herself.

If Camellia wasn’t here.

If Sterling, beautiful boy, wasn’t waiting for her.

She choked back the hate.

“Why are we waiting?” she asked, restraining her tone.  “The house is burning.”

“Those two,” Mia said, pointing to two people standing a short distance from Davie, “are the most dangerous men within a mile of us.  Hired professionals.  I want to see what they do.  Especially if people turn on Davie.”

“Pressure’s ratcheting up,” Carson murmured, barely audible with the mask.  “They should.”

“This is usually your area of expertise,” Mia said, touching his arm.  “But even I can tell, here.”

On the screens, other people standing around the house were getting upset.  Some of that was directed at Davie.

Davie, in view of a drone, motioned.

One of the two men came with him.  The other came back toward the house.  Camera two, where others were spreading the flame.

Natalie jumped as one of those attempts at spreading it hit a window, with a dull flare of orange.  Out of sync with the drone camera.

“End of the hall, to the-” Mia Hurst ordered, and Carson joined her for the last word- “left.”

They went.  Natalie made a point of trying to usher the kids, going last, with both in front.  Bryan and Camellia.  There was a moment of confusion, because Mia was also trying to guide them and let them by, and there were too many of them to squeeze.  The look she shot Natalie was cold.

Carson put a hand on Mia’s shoulder.   “Natalie.”

“What?”

“The jugs.”

“Don’t you dare try to slow me down, lock me out- or in-”

“I’m hurt, Mia’s hurt.  You’re capable of carrying them.”

“I can,” Camellia said.  “Or I can try.  If mom can take one-”

It took Natalie a second to realize Camellia meant Mia.  It hurt as much as if she’d been abruptly stabbed in the chest.

“No,” Carson told Camellia.  “You have your arm full with the oxygen tank.  Bryan too.  The ground will be uneven.  Natalie.”

Natalie hesitated, then stepped into the room.  Before they’d all come up, Carson had lifted up two jugs of undiluted cleaner and they’d left them by the hole.

She grabbed the jugs, pressing a hand to the duct tape at her wrist to make sure nothing was leaking, then lifted them.

They’d paused by the glass door, checking the coast was clear.

Natalie put the jugs down- a few seconds of reprieve, and moved a bit further down the hall.

“Natalie,” Mia Hurst called out, voice low.

“What?”

Mia shook her head.

Natalie wanted to do it anyway.  What was at the end of the hall?  A teenage girl’s room, a bathroom, and a closed door.

Then the door opened, and she decided it was better to stay close.  The sirens ongoing, blaring in the background, but they came across twice as loud the moment the door was open.  The suits they wore meant Natalie couldn’t even enjoy the breeze of the outdoors, after being cooped up in the basement.  Trickles of sweat ran down her back, her arms, into her gloves, her eyes.  She could taste it on her lips.  The cold air of the oxygen somehow made it worse, as if her body couldn’t tell what temperature it was supposed to be, and overcompensated the wrong way.

Was she tasting bleach and ammonia in the air?  The gas?  Or was that imagination, the too-clean air of the oxygen tank and the taste of the freshly unpacked plastic suit playing with her senses?

The space that was down the hall and to the left wasn’t a backyard, but a kind of atrium, modern, with glass panes on four sides.  A patch of the outdoors, contained within the building, with a small water feature, trees, and collected plants.  They cut past it, to the narrowest band of house, pausing so Mia could check the phone she held, before pushing a side door open.  People had moved around the perimeter of the house, keeping their distance from the fumes that apparently leaked out.  The people who were closest had shirts pulled up and held around their mouths, eyes squinting shut against the It looked like there was a crowd there, and the crowd was entirely focused on other things, like the fire at the front of the house, and the people at the head of the group.

They jogged across to the treeline.

Carson turned and pointed his weapon.  Natalie flinched, at first because she thought he was coming after her.  Then because she realized who he was reacting to.

There were people in the woods, hidden in shadow, not visible by drone.

Two young men.  One had his gun drawn, but it was pointed more at their feet than at them.  Carson had drawn faster.

Natalie’s heart hammered.  Her breath fogged the pane of her mask, and she wished, dearly, that she could see what was happening with any clarity.

Carson slowly moved his gun to one side, relaxing.  With his free hand, he motioned.

The one Cavalcanti soldier with his gun drawn slowly lowered it.

“Live and let live,” Carson said.

“Can barely hear you,” the one without a gun said.

“Live and let live,” Carson said, with more emphasis.  “Yeah?”

“You’re saying that when you’ve killed our cousins?  Tried to gas us?”

“He took my kid.  He took her arm,” Carson said.  “What the fuck else is a guy supposed to do?”

Not yours.

“We should kill you for what you did.”

“You want to make this a thing?” Carson asked.  “Your boss did it for kicks.  You really want to keep this going, so a freak like that can have his fun?  We did what we did to get this far, get my kid.  Now we can leave, we leave you guys alone.  You figure out what you’re doing about Davie on your own time.  Or I start shooting, one of you maybe gets a shot off, maybe we die, a bunch more of your cousins die too.”

“You’d die,” Mia said.  “For someone that’s not worth it.”

“Fuck you.”

“We go, you guys rebuild, or we fight, this drags out.  Your choice,” Carson said.

His voice didn’t waver.  Neither did the gun.  He sounded a bit like he could be someone at the bus stop, asking how her day was.

The one with the gun tensed. The other one put a hand on his gun arm, keeping him from raising his weapon.

“Fuck off, then.”

Carson motioned to their group.

They retreated.  were moving down the hillside.  Or mountainside.  It was halfway between each.  She focused on keeping Camellia steady and making sure Bryan was okay.

Carson lingered long enough to be able to react if they did anything, then hurried after them.

“Turned too fast there,” he said, voice muffled by the mask.  To Mia.

“You alright?”

“Nope.  Your leg?”

“I’ll let you know when I can’t put one foot in front of the other.  I won’t slow us down.”

Mia said that, but Natalie could see that they were moving more slowly than they could have, otherwise.  That Carson paused, as they reached a spot where a fallen tree with dirt packed up to the side of it turned a bit of slope into a sharp drop-off, and helped Mia down.  That Mia then stopped, back to a tree, panting for breath, while he helped the kids. He offered a hand to Natalie, who refused, jumping down and skidding on dirt, instead.

Then it took a second longer to resume moving after, Carson slowing to make sure Mia was keeping up, Natalie and the kids slowing because the two adults blocked the way.

“Are you feeling okay?” Natalie asked Camellia.

“Dizzy.”

“Hold onto my arm.  Careful with the suit, though.  Grab where the duct tape is.”

“Can we take off the suits?” Camellia asked, doing as instructed.  “I’m hot.”

“Not yet,” Carson said.

“They’re not going to pretend they didn’t see us,” Mia said.

“No.  Best way to cover their asses.  They can say they saw us run by.”

Natalie saw him turn his head.  Whatever expression he wore on his face, the angles of hood and mask didn’t let her see.

She kept Camellia steady as best as she could with a jug of cleaner in her hands.  Hair had fallen across her face and was damp enough with sweat it stuck there.  She gave her head a firm shake, flicking it, and it fell across the bridge of her nose and cheekbone.

“I was hoping there would be something we could use,” Mia said.  “Some areas looked promising from the air.”

“What?” Natalie asked.  Her arm was tired, with Camellia hanging off of it, and a heavy jug in her hand.

“A shack, or a bit of concrete where runoff comes out.  On the drone cameras, there were some square-ish shapes.  I thought it might be something.  If we pour chemical into the dirt, it will get absorbed into the ground.  It won’t be as useful.”

“We should have brought a tarp or plastic sheeting,” Carson said.  “Next time, hm?”

Mia made a small amused sound.

Natalie, spooked by how they could joke about this, kept her mouth shut.  It didn’t help anything.

“Natalie, how long can you hold your breath?”

“What?”

“If we had you take off your suit?” Carson asked.  “We could use it as a tarp.”

She felt a chill.  It redoubled when Camellia looked at her, then at Carson Hurst.

“You’re not funny, dad.”

Natalie closed her eyes.  Sweat stung.

‘Dad’.

“No, you’re right.  Not funny,” he said, in that same tone he’d used when talking to the men he had at gunpoint.  Casual.  Easygoing.  “In my defense, my side really hurts.”

“I don’t like that side of you.  The scary part,” Camellia said.

“When I’m scary, it’s for your sake.  Or it’s to scare away someone dangerous, so we don’t have to do scary things as much.  Or it’s to protect a client.  Someone who needs and deserves a second chance.”

“That’s how you justify it?” Natalie asked.  “You have answers for everything?”

Camellia squeezed her wrist.

“I don’t like that side of you either, Natalie,” Camellia said, quiet.

As if it’s equal. 

As if it’s fucking equal. 

As if him being an actual sociopath is in any way equal to me being deservedly angry at having you ripped from my life.

“Sorry.”

Camellia’s smile was barely visible, past the fog of Natalie’s exhalations inside her mask, Camellia’s own fog, and the mask that she wore, hacked together with the smoke mask, with duct tape to hold it firm and the gaps covered in liberal amounts of sealant.

“Do you have a knife?” Mia asked.

Carson had one outside the outfit he wore.

“Keep moving.  Look out for a patch of flat ground.  Dirt.”

All Natalie wanted to do was take Camellia and run.  It was hard to think of anything else.  But she looked.

“There,” Bryan said.

“Good looking out,” Carson told the boy, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Here.  Pack the dirt.  Some will spill, but if we pack it enough, it should hold liquid better,” Mia said.  “Use the jugs-”

She reached for one jug.  Natalie flinched.

Mia moved a bit more gently, plucking the jug from Natalie’s hand.  “We can’t delay.  One of them will be on our trail.”

“I can’t bend over, I’ll watch,” Carson said.

Mia used the base of the jug to ram the ground, packing looser dirt down.

Natalie got up, moved over some, and found a rock.

She could visualize smashing Mia Hurst’s head in.

But as she approached, she saw Carson watching her.

Camellia watched her too.

She used the stone to help, smashing the ground with redirected aggression and frustration.

“Bowl shape,” Mia said.

Natalie obliged.

Mia placed the one jug in the center, then used the box knife, cutting the jug.

She uncapped the other, and prepared to pour it.

“Wait.  That’s going to overflow.”

“That’s why we made the bowl of packed dirt.”

“Pour into my arms.  Pour half, fill to the brim, put the other jug down.”

Natalie made a cradle of her arms.

“No.”

“We could have me hold some of the liquid, I could let some out, you could catch it in the half-empty jug-”

“It would damage the plastic and adhesive tape.  Even a little damage could lead to gas exposure.  Ripley said she wants you alive.  We took the hard road already, getting you out this way, we’re not going to get you accidentally killed,” Mia said.  “Packed dirt will do.”

“Hurry it along,” Carson told them.  “I might have seen one of them.”

Mia emptied one jug into the other.  It overflowed.  The liquid of the two large jugs mingled in the one jug and pooled at the base.

Natalie felt like she could taste it, and held her breath, backing away, pulling Camellia with her.  Her arms felt buoyant after carrying the jugs this far.

“Will that produce enough gas?” Camellia asked.

“Not enough to cover the whole area.  But we have reason to believe one of them is tracking us,” Mia said.  “This way.  The way is harder from where he is to here.  Lots of fallen, packed trees.”

Mia rose to her feet as she talked, and right at the end, put weight on her injured leg, and dropped back to one knee, skidding on the loose material and dirt of the slope.

Carson gave her a hand in getting to her feet.

“Are you going to be okay?” Camellia asked.

“I’ll manage some-”

The sharp sound made Natalie think first of someone putting their weight on a branch and snapping it with incredible force, and she was halfway into a frantic thought about that giving away their position when she caught the echo.

A gunshot, from far away.  The sound echoed through the woods.

Bryan fell.

Natalie reached for him, hampered by Camellia holding onto her other arm.

It was Mia who grabbed him, throwing herself bodily over him, rolling, and, gripping one arm, stood up again, so he was dangling behind her, his arm bent awkwardly over her shoulder.

“Get back!” Mia snarled.

Natalie, in the face of this ferocious woman practically lunging at her, did.

Another shot rang out.  Natalie had no idea if it hit a tree, dirt, or carried on so far that she couldn’t hope to hear or see any sign of it.

“Mia,” Carson said.

Mia was panting for breath.

“My love.  My wife.”

“He shot a child,” Mia snarled.

“I do think he was aiming for me.  Focus.  Your suit’s torn.  Let’s get clear of the gas.  Can Natalie carry him piggyback?”

Natalie wasn’t sure she could.  “Where is he hit?”

“Chest,” Mia said.  “I’ll carry him.”

“You’re injured.”

“I can do it.”

The boy drew in a wheezing breath.  Natalie could barely see his face, with the angle, and the fog against the hard plastic pane.  But the eye she could see looked scared.

“Okay, then,” Carson said.  “We need distance.”

“Yeah.”

Camellia had said her dad scared her, when he got a certain way, made a joke about leaving Natalie without a suit.

She’d said Natalie scared her, when Natalie had gotten upset.

Did this qualify?  This side of Mia?

Because it sure as shit scared Natalie.

It scared her that Mia, with a hole through her thigh, one arm seemingly useless, stuck in a sling with the oxygen tank in the crook of her arm, supported by the sling, could carry a kid that probably weighed a hundred pounds, marching forward like it was nothing, periodically turning, even, to check their pursuer wasn’t lining up a shot behind them.

“He stopped.”

“Are you sure?” Mia asked.

“I think the smell of the chlorine gas spooked him.  He was standing on a rise, lining up a shot, then backed off, lifted his gun away.  Might mean there’s trouble on the road.”

“My phone’s in the left pocket.  Check the drones.”

Carson navigated around Mia, who was still jogging forward.  Who didn’t even glance at him, as he fished the phone out.

Purely focused on moving forward.

He checked.

“Drones are still stationary, but they’re transmitting.  That tells me the operators aren’t set up yet,” Carson said.

“Alright.”

“Or it’s a trap,” he added.  “It’s been a bit.  They’ve had time to get everything running again.  Even leaving some of the tech behind.”

“Alright,” Mia said, again.  “Keep an eye on that, in case they move.”

“Can do.”

Doggedly focused on moving forward.  Natalie couldn’t see, but she could imagine a vein standing out at the side of Mia’s neck, from the strain.  Dripping with sweat just the same as Natalie.

Monstrous.  This was Natalie’s opposition.  This was the same woman that, if nothing changed, would be coming for Camellia, with every tool and bit of grit at her disposal.

Mia saw Natalie looking.

“I care about kids,” Mia said.

Camellia squeezed Natalie’s arm.

That wasn’t why I was staring.  Or scared.

I’m fucking angry about your way of ‘caring’ about kids.

“I had a head injury, when I was a child.  I think it broke the part of me that’s meant to put walls up.  That’s meant to shut things out, so I can be… okay with it all.  I spend every day quietly terrified.  For Ripley, for Tyr.  For Sterling.  For Bryan here.  Constantly.”

Natalie was busy trying to breathe, and was bewildered Mia was able to string that many words together, considering everything..  Drawing in air through her nose, breathing out through her mouth.  Trying to see as her mask fogged up.  Her mouth felt dry and cold, little points of sensitivity still distracting her in the moment.  Her skin and hair were drenched as surely as if someone had emptied a bucket of salt water over her, and plastic clung to her, making it worse.

What Mia was saying deserved a response, a retort, but Camellia’s hand on her wrist was tight, and she could remember that part of herself that had wondered where the line was, for forgiveness.

She didn’t think it was here.  No fucking way was it here.

But Mia had mentioned a head injury, and between that thought about the line and the scenarios that had run through her head a hundred times, that deserved to be worth something, Camellia’s hand, and some desire for an explanation for where the last eleven years of her life had gone… Natalie Listened.

“I think of the little girl who was just outside active fighting, between Cavalcanti soldiers and Civil Warriors.  I know you have your view of me.  But I can’t… not care.  It makes me restless, I turn that restlessness into work.  Being stronger, research, money.”

“Crime,” Natalie replied.

Camellia squeezed her wrist.

“Saving people who want to get out of the life.  Most do.”

“And the ones that don’t?  You give them a chance to keep going?  Keep hurting people?”

“What’s the saying?” Mia asked.  “Better for ten guilty people to go free than for one innocent man to be captive?”

Natalie barked out a laugh.

“Do you know how many people are out there, with parents that don’t care?  With nothing?  They get pulled into gangs or crime out of desperation, then end up with no way out?  Some under Davie Cavalcanti.  That’s imprisonment of its own.”

“That’s convenient for you.”

“It’s convenient because I looked for it.  I saw the people in need and catered to them.”

“Earning a lot of money.  Enough for traps, guns, people you hire…”

Camellia squeezed her wrist again.

“Is it so bad, for ten people to go free, finding their way to a new, better life, if one person ends up abusing that privilege?”

“I think you’d have to ask their victims.  Imagine, authorities closing in around Davie Cavalcanti, and someone gives him that chance.  After he did what he did to- to Ripley?”

“It wasn’t like that.  It was always the plan that when Ripley was older, sixteen to eighteen, when she was emotionally mature enough, we’d show her the files.  Let her see each person.  What they did, why we worked to give them a second chance.  Even where they ended up, if she needed to.”

“Were you ever going to tell her about me?”

“Yes.”

“Your version of events, or were you going to put us in touch?”

Mia had to readjust Bryan, behind her.  Conveniently, she didn’t come up with an immediate response.

“An accurate version of events,” Mia said, and, past that fog inside her mask, which was beaded with condensation or sweat that had shaken free of hair or face, one eye stared over at Natalie.

“All this talk of second chances,” Natalie said.

“Yeah,” Mia said, like she knew what the follow up would be.

“Where the hell was mine?  Where the-” Natalie started, and she choked on the words, inhaled hot air and surprised herself.  “My daughter.”

“Natalie,” Camellia said.

“No, I feel- I deserve this.  Others- assuming we come out of this alive, others deserve to know.  Do you know how many lives you affected, you absolute monster?  How many people were scared for their own children?  Felt dread?  How the ripples spread out, past me, past Sean, to our families, friends?  The relationships that broke down?  The connections that came apart?  The number of hours, for me, for others, spent imagining the worst?  So you could play house?”

They’d stopped progressing down the hillside.

“We should keep moving,” Carson said.

“No.  It’s not just me.  I want to be able to walk away from this and tell those people the truth.  This might be our one chance to get an answer from her.  if Mia here doesn’t shoot me in the back, before she does whatever she’s planning.”  She turned her full focus to Mia.  “Ca- Ripley calls you mom.  She has a name you gave her.  She dresses how you-”

“She dresses how she wants,” Mia cut in.

As the words poured out, it felt as painful as the first moments she’d realized Camellia was gone.  “No, no you had your influence!  You chose the clothes she wore when she was young, you encouraged, whether you knew it or not, what she liked and didn’t like!  You modeled your own looks and styles when she was young and looked up to you!  You got to try out styles with her, and when I try and give her clothes, I’m the bad guy, because you took all of that!  Even now, you gave her- no, you took her first haircut.  Her first words, first steps!  First smile!  The shopping trips!  First movies!  Precious moments!  That’s grotesque!  You’re grotesque!”

“She wouldn’t have had those things if I hadn’t found her.”

“Fuck you, no.  That’s not true.”

Mia’s tone changed.  “It’s all about what you lost.  Why does it seem like you’d rather have Ripley dead, and you accused of manslaughter, than have her alive and living a better life with someone else?”

“She’s alive and well?  She’s missing an arm because of a criminal-”

“A criminal-” Mia reached out, almost grabbing Natalie by the throat, before stopping herself.  She would have dropped Bryan, who was draped over her shoulder.  She clenched her fist.

Natalie’s heart hammered in her chest.  She stood a little taller, chest and head more in reach.  Almost daring Mia, now.  Her breath came out in pants.  Choke me.  Or tear off my mask.  Show her who you really are.

Instead, Mia talked, saying, “Your idiot journalist tipped off the Cavalcantis.  He thought he could work with them to get in our way and stop us.  Which led to them getting you and Ripley.  We would have been fine if you hadn’t appeared in our lives.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Carson said.  “I even had words with him on the bus, we watched helplessly while they took you away.”

Natalie shook her head.  Sweat droplets shook free of her forehead and flowed into her eyes.  She blinked, and sweat mingled with the tears that had already welled up, earlier in her rant.  “It’s not a binary.  It’s not two options, you take her or leave her in the car to die.  There were other choices.  That didn’t involve devastating whole families and lives, lying to her, involving criminals… any of that.”

“We should go,” Carson said.

“You keep saying that when I say something you two don’t have an answer to,” Natalie accused.

“I keep saying it when there’s an expert hunter with government training and a rifle taking a roundabout route past the gas cloud to chase us, and a whole army around us,” Carson said.  “And Bryan’s bleeding.”

“You’re right,” Mia said.  “I’m not doing great myself, I should have thought about that.  Bryan.”

“I know.  That’s why I reminded you.  Part of being a team,” he said. Was he deliberating trying to take jabs at Natalie, or did it just feel that way?  “How are you managing, Rip?”

Camellia sniffled.  She was crying.  It took her a second to get to the point she could get words out.  “Woozy.”

“You lost a lot of blood and you haven’t eaten.”

“We ate with Davie Cavalcanti,” Natalie clarified.

“I didn’t eat much.”

Mia was already forging her way downhill again.  “What I was going to say, before you got upset-”

Fuck you.

“-is Ripley wants compromise.  A form of dual custody.  I’m open to the idea.”

“So you get eleven years with her.  Then we share the time after?  You get away scot free?”

“It’s what Ripley wants.”

“She doesn’t know what she wants.”

“She knows enough.”

“She knows what you’ve taught her.  How you raised her.  No.  You’re criminals.  You’re dangerous.  You barely blink when you kill people.  You don’t cry.”

“It’s what she wants,” Mia repeated.

“And what happens if she turns eighteen, and she turns to me, horrified-”

Natalie’s foot hit a patch of moss that wasn’t thoroughly connected to the slope below.  She skidded about four feet down the slope before finding firmer grass and weeds underfoot.

She’d managed to catch Camellia.  Camellia nodded, and pushed off of Natalie’s shoulder to get upright, before Natalie straightened.

“-horrified,” she had to remind herself of what she’d been saying.  “Saying she was so young, she’d been brainwashed, she didn’t know any better, how could I let her be around people that dangerous?  That’s a choice a parent has to make, sometimes.  Knowing best.”

“She wants Blair and Devon.  She wants her friend group.”

“She can have them.  If she’s not with you.  You’re known criminals.  No remotely sane parent would let you host a sleepover, or pick up a child from their house.”

“Compromise would-”

“Fuck you.  You’re deluded.”

“Please don’t-” Camellia murmured.  “Don’t get so angry you’re swearing at each other.  If you need to argue, okay.  I know this isn’t easy, or- I don’t know.  I really don’t.  But swearing doesn’t- won’t.”

Natalie put a hand over Camellia’s.

Camellia pulled away, touching trees for that point of reference to keep herself balanced.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Natalie said.  “Before Carson interrupted.  The decision you made, it wasn’t binary.  You could have called for help.  You could have let me know.  And you could have given me a second chance.”

They carried on down the hillside.  Natalie checked behind them.

Mia pulled her mask off.  Her hair was plastered to her head with sweat.  She wrinkled her nose, then put the mask back on, shaking her head.  “Almost, not quite.”

“Changing the subject?  Don’t have an answer for me?”

“No.  I have an answer.  Out of respect for Ripley, I’m withholding it.”

“Sure.”

“Sterling,” Camellia said.

“What?” Natalie asked.

“Sterling.  I said it to you before.  I’m guessing that’s what mom was going to say.  You wanted a second chance.  You had Sterling.  And he’s not happy.  You don’t spend enough time with him.  You don’t know enough about him.  When you have him and you’re around family you spend time with the family, and ignore him.  He’s lonely.  That’s what he said.”

“Would you rather Ripley was with you and miserable-” Carson said.

“Fuck you.”

“Or with us and happy?” he finished, in that same light tone from earlier, muffled by the mask.

“The teachers of Sterling’s Pre-K noticed it and wrote about it in emails.  The child services worker at the hospital wrote it.  She didn’t write about the situation, but she wrote about your relationship with Sterling,” Mia said, not even looking Natalie’s way.  “She said he seemed lost, and Ben provided the support.”

After Camellia had been taken from her, she’d keened, rocking back and forth on the floor.  She hadn’t eaten.  She hadn’t washed.  Her mother, distant as she was, had bathed her, as if she was a child again.  Then the people had fallen away.

The pain had been so great that people hadn’t known how to help… so they’d stopped.

If she’d twisted the truth at all, it was about how the ripples had spread.  What that looked like.

But she herself had felt the pain that nobody should feel, more than ten or a hundred people could’ve or should’ve borne.  She had wanted to die.

Now she watched as Camellia moved ahead, unsteady on her feet, until she was in line with Mia.  Checking, in the break in the conversation, on Bryan, who wheezed away.

Camellia looked over her shoulder at Natalie, one side of her mouth pulling back in a kind of apologetic non-smile.

This moment felt like dying, more than wanting to die.

For Camellia to say those words.

“It’s not fair,” Natalie said, words choked.  “That you get to break me, take my joy, take my hope, my love, do the amount of harm you’ve done… then use that struggle to say I don’t get to have her back.  That I have hate in my heart that you put there.  That I’ve struggled, because you put that struggle into my life.  You can’t tear my heart out, then blame me for- for wanting it back so badly I lose track of-”

“For five years?” Carson asked.

“No that’s- I’m tired, I was up late, watching Ripley, making sure she didn’t stop breathing, with the blood loss, or shock.  I’m not good at thinking or putting words together in these situations, that shouldn’t count against me here.”

Tears flowed.

She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse, that they were focused enough on the path ahead of them, that they didn’t look her way.

⯁

“Hello Natty.”

Natalie shrank back.

“Go on.  Give your Auntie O a hug.”

Natalie hesitated, but someone -not her mom- stuck a foot out and gave her a prod in the butt.  She stumbled forward, hands immediately going back to smooth her nice skirt, and her hands weren’t up in a place to defend herself as her Auntie O descended.  Tall and round-faced, with heavy makeup, including crimson lips that looked like costume wax lips more than anything else.

Natalie was lifted off the ground, by hands under her armpits, then pulled into a hug.  Aunt O rocked her left and right, her legs dangling.  The woman smelled like wine and cigarettes, but mostly wine.

“Kiss, kiss,” the aunt said.

Natalie went for a cheek kiss.  Her aunt, holding her, maneuvered instead for a lip-on-lip smooch.

“You’re almost too old for that,” Auntie O said, before awkwardly lowering Natalie to the ground.

Natalie started to move away, hand smudging her mouth, while some adults laughed, loud and wine-y.  It felt like the thick lipstick was on her face, now, and rubbing didn’t make it better.

She started to duck away, but her mom caught her, first by the arm, then pulling at her waistband.  “Hold on, hold on.  Your grandmother wants to know what brand this is.”

The collar of her shirt was pulled back and folded, so her mom could read the label.

“Kara’s.”  Her mom released her.

“I’m going to remember that.  It’s so hard to dress these kids.  Natalie must be a challenge especially, she looks more like she’s six than…”

“Eight.”

“She’s such a doll.”

Natalie was released, but another uncle was bending down.  “Where’s my hug?”

“Give him a hug,” her mom said.  “She’s so shy, sometimes.”

She dutifully gave her uncle a hug.

“How are you?  How’s school?”

“Okay,” she mumbled.

“Good.  Your grades are good?”

She shrugged.

“Her grades are very good, she’s being modest.”

“What books are you reading?” an older cousin asked.

Surrounded by people that dwarfed her, she found herself tongue-tied, her mind a blank.  She shrugged.

“She’s reading at a high level.”

“Do you want to come talk about books?” the older cousin asked.

“Or boyyys?” another relative asked.

Hands seized her from behind, pulling her backwards into another hug.  She yelped a bit.

“Go easy, Earl.”

“I’m easy,” Uncle Earl said.  He smelled like beer.  His arms were wrapped around her ribs.  “How are you?”

“Fine,” she mumbled.

“Come-” the older cousin started.  But then Natalie was lifted off her feet.  And, hands fumbling around her, was flipped upside-down.

“Go easy, Earl!  She’s not like your kids!”

“Woah!” an older cousin jeered, ducking down so his face was level with hers.

Natalie, bewildered, dizzied, put a hand up to keep her skirt from flipping, another hand down, in case he dropped her on her head.  She almost hit her cousin in the process.

“You’re fine?  Give me more than one word, come on!  More than one word and I let you go!”

“I’m okay!”

“That’s not a response!”

“I don’t know!”

“Earl!  Let her go!”

She wasn’t sure if her mom was repeating herself, if others were saying it, or if it was just dizziness, alarm, and the blood rushing to her head, but it felt like forever before her uncle released her.

Flushed, disheveled, she backed off.

“Come, talk books?” her older cousin offered.

Natalie fled the room, instead.

“Go find others to play with!” her mom told her.

“I have no cousins my age, it sucks.  The older and younger cousins have whole groups,” the other cousin complained.

Natalie didn’t want to find others to play with.  She found the backyard, where the dogs were, and a deck chair.  She was careful not to let them jump on her in their excitement, and the deck chair was huge, but she could pull back, legs crossed, skirt pulled over knees, and give them scratches and head pats.  When they got bored of her, they played with each other.

Her heart rate took a while to settle, after the bustle, and the crush of people.  She wiped at her mouth, then realized a dog had just licked the same part of the hand she’d used to rub her lips.  Leaning over the armrest, she spat a few times.

She wanted to go into the house, to get something, but- she didn’t want to go into the house.  Too many people.

When she straightened, she wasn’t alone.  Uncle Earl’s two kids were there.

⯁

She found her mom in the sea of adults, so dressed up for the holidays that Natalie didn’t recognize her immediately.

She navigated people bigger than her, including her uncle’s friend, who didn’t seem to know how big he was, and nearly swung his beer belly into her head as he turned.

Once she reached her mom, she decided the best way was to squeeze between couch and armchair, to lean in, and whisper, “I want to go home.”

“It’s barely been two hours.  We drove that long to get here.”

“Please.”

“What’s wrong?  Are you not feeling well?”

It wasn’t that.  It was that she was tired already, she felt intimidated by everyone being bigger than her – except her little cousins, who seemed to have ten times the energy.  And Uncle Earl’s kids-

Teasing, poking, prodding.  Trying to get reactions.  Trying to push her limits.  Until she reacted.  But she could push back or call them names, and they didn’t even blink.  And they kept at her.

If she could just sit with the dogs and see a few relatives that would be-

“Come here, there’s space on the couch-”

Natalie was pulled by one arm.  Auntie O again.

“Don’t-”

And once she was close enough, she was grabbed around the middle and lifted.

“I don’t think she’s feeling well, if you grab her around the gut like that, you deserve whatever happens.”

“Oh she wouldn’t do that to me.  Oof, you’re heavy for a six year old.”

“I’m-”

“She’s eight.”

“Oh, you’ve got to tell me your secret, darling.  How do you keep this slim, tiny figure?”

There wasn’t room on the couch, and she was crushed between her aunt’s side and the armrest.

“You’re not supposed to talk about a girl’s weight, you’ll give her an eating disorder!” someone said, from across the room.  Her uncle’s friend.  “Poor girl.  Look at your hair, you’re so disheveled already.  You looked so pretty when you came in the door.  Let’s fix that.”

“It’s fine,” she protested.

“It’s really not, have you looked in a mirror?”

Long fingernails combed through her hair.

“Were you having fun?” another uncle asked.

She started to squirm her way free.

“Let her go, she’s not feeling well.”

“If she gives me a kiss,” her aunt said.

It was a kiss on the cheek, at least.  Or the temple.

Somehow that was the point that made her reach her limit.  Or reach it again.  She’d started crying with her cousins needling her.  Then she’d gone to the bathroom to cry in private.  She’d heard them leave and she’d come here.

Now..

“Are you crying?” a cousin asked, almost jeering.

“She’s not feeling well,” her mom said.  She started to rise out of her seat.  Natalie felt relief.  Then her mom resettled.  She’d been getting access to her purse.  “Here.  Pills.  For indigestion.  Chew.  And go upstairs to one of the empty beds and have a lie-down.”

She fled, once again.

“She’s crying a lot for a kid her age,” an adult said, when she was out of the room but still in earshot.

“She acts more like she’s six than eight.”

“But she’s adorable,” Auntie O proclaimed.  “She’s a treat.”

She didn’t take the medicine, because she didn’t need it.

She found an empty room.  There was a bed.  It was quiet.

Natalie sniffed, found a tissue, blew her nose, and then climbed onto the bed.  Her grandmother’s house had huge beds and thick covers, so it was a task to get onto it.

She tried and failed to sleep.  She felt weirdly hyperalert, every little noise jolting her.  And they weren’t all little noises.  The door opened.  Little cousins.  An uncle ushered them away before they could bother her too much.

Her clothes, fancier ones for the holiday get-together, scratched and itched.

Adults laughed downstairs, and it felt a bit like they were laughing at her.  The way her cousins had.  The way adults had talked about her, as she’d left the room.  It stirred up feelings of frustration and unfairness that made it even harder to rest or relax.

“There you are.”

She sat upright.

Her cousins, again.

They were smiling, but it wasn’t a happy smile.  It was scary.  They scared her, because they didn’t flinch, or react, or care.  The unhappier she was, the happier they seemed.

“I bet she pukes.”

“She’ll cry again, I bet.”

Nobody seemed to care.  Not about her.

⯁

“When something bad happens, and you don’t have any help, any support, you can be frozen at that age, development-wise.  It’s why you’re a fucking twelve year old, Peter.  You look twenty-five, but you never matured past that point.  You never grew up.”

“You need to reach out.  The ideal time to reach out would’ve been thirteen years ago, but the next best time is now.”

Tears came to Natalie’s eyes.  The image on the screen in front of her blurred with the moisture.

She fucking hated crying.  But hormones.  Fuck.

Am I frozen?

She felt frozen.

She felt like she was still that eight year old girl, the world a storm of people around her.  Not one person in her corner… or if they were there, like how maybe her cousin Ellie would have been that, if she’d accepted her lonely cousin’s invitations for company, she couldn’t find them for the life of her.

She wanted to tell Sean.

She turned to him, expecting his eyes to be on the screen.  They weren’t.  He was asleep, head lolling back.  Her feet were in his lap, footrub long aborted.

It was unfair in every way, but she was mad at him, in that moment.  For not being there for her.  Hormones, she guessed, were magnifying that feeling.  But she was mad, all the same.

So long as she didn’t act on it.

She carefully extricated her feet from his hands and lap, easing them to the ground.

He stirred.  “You okay?”

“Gotta pee,” she told him, shifting position on the couch, so she was ready to stand.  “Camellia’s headbutting my bladder.”

“You need anything?” he mumbled, stretching a bit.

She worked her pregnant way to her pregnancy-swollen feet, took in a breath, then managed to tell him, “No.”

But he was already asleep again.

That anger flared.

She felt like that child again.  Very small in a big, chaotic world.  Her emotions weren’t hers, it felt like.  It was more like her emotions were the rest of the world’s, to play with, provoke, wound.  Disappoint.  Anger.

How the hell was she meant to do this.

“You gotta protect her,” she told a sleeping Sean, before turning.  She waddled her way to the ground-floor bathroom.

Was she frozen at eight years old?  Was that why she felt so monumentally unprepared?

I won’t let you feel the way I felt.

She reached the bathroom, leaning on the sink.  The tap was still partially disassembled.  Sean had said he’d fix it today.

She did her business, and, weary, content for the moment for her world to be a bathroom with a broken sink, a space so small that she could touch all four walls from where she sat, she took it all in.  She hadn’t expected a stupid drama show to hit at her weak points like this.

Or maybe she was all weak points, and that was the problem.

She’s crying a lot for a kid her age.

She folded forearms and hands around her stomach.

Anger at Sean flared, as she thought about it.  That he should be checking on her.  That that was unfair.  Then anger became something else, and she cried.

She soothed herself and she reassured Camellia, still curled up within her, that she’d protect her.

⯁

I’ll protect you from harm.

She wanted to reach out to Camellia and she couldn’t.  Camellia leaned on Mia Hurst, instead.  The arm that Natalie would reach for was gone.

They made their way down the slope, toward the road.

Carson glanced back at Natalie.

I’ll protect you from people with cold gazes.

Carson checked the cameras.

“How’s Bryan?” Carson asked, his gaze on the screen.

“Wheezing.  Alive.  Not great.”

Camellia looked back at Natalie.  Natalie wondered if her daughter was looking for some kind of reassurance, or balance.  Or something else.

“The drones are moving,” Carson reported.

Mia settled into a resting position, hand gripping her thigh.  She made a pained sound.  “Are they moving like they know where we are?”

“Close to.  I don’t think we can afford to stop to catch our breath.”

Mia nodded.  But she still took a second, eyes shut, hand at her thigh.

“He doesn’t have his family with him.  They’re backing off, taking the side road, off the mountain.  By the other warning station.”

“How many?” Mia asked.

“The police he turned.  And the mercenaries.  I’m not seeing the drone operators.  I think they’re somewhere else, out of range of the drones, ironically.”

“Okay,” Mia said.

She stood.  Ripley looked up at Mia.

I’m going to protect you from feeling how I felt.  Like I was constantly on the brink of tears.  Or fury.

I always ended up crying.  Why?

Ripley made herself get to her feet.  She looked so unsure.  So scared.

Natalie rose to her feet too.

Carson was shaking his head, looking at the phone.  “Fast.”

Fast?

Oh, they had to go fast.

Natalie almost tripped over herself, in her fatigue.

They crossed the road.

They were almost in the trees when headlights swept over them.

Mia’s leg, Carson’s injured side, and the fatigue of trekking through thick vegetation kept them from making the kind of ground they needed to make.  They had to stop too soon.

Before they were fully incapable of seeing the other cars pulling up to the treeline.  Police vehicles.

“Remain where you are!” the voice blared, augmented by some exterior speaker on the vehicle, or a megaphone.

They didn’t remain.

“Do we have a way past the drones?” Mia asked.

Carson glanced down at the phone.

I want to give you at least one person who won’t fail you.

Carson turned.  “Hunter.”

Directly behind them.

“Police.”

Coming down their flanks.

Probably moving through these woods faster than they were.  Uninjured.

“Police.”

Ahead of them, on the next road, at the base of the hill.

“Davie Cavalcanti and the second government trained tracker and hunter.”

Direct ahead.

“He’s waiting for us?” Natalie asked.

“Drove around.  Like he expected us.  And, of course,” Carson used the flat of his hand to point skyward.

Drones.

“Davie, then,” Mia murmured.  “Through, past him, or… not at all.  There are no other options.”

When Camellia had suggested killing the life support for the ‘trophies’, it had been because they were something Davie Cavalcanti prized.

He’ll want more.

There were four or five right here, if they weren’t careful.  If they weren’t lucky.

“Okay,” Natalie said.

They hurried forward, Mia limping, carrying the wounded child.

Natalie would have liked the chance to be the hero there.  But Mia had taken it.  Had taken so much else.

She’d left Natalie the role of villain.  Betraying her own promises to her daughter, then realizing it after.  For bodily autonomy.  For a say.

They made Natalie feel that child all over again.  Every glimpse of Mia or Carson felt like being little, Uncle Earl’s kids cornering her.  Except so much worse.  So much worse.

Only one thing was left.  One promise she’d made to her daughter, before everything.

I’ll protect you from the monsters.

---

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Mia was hunkered down behind the ventilation machinery, Ripley gripping her arm tight.  The boy wasn’t far away, and from what little Mia could see in the diffuse light that leaked past the plastic sheeting, looked badly like he wanted a hug, but to do that, Mia would have had to make Ripley let go and crawl past her.  Logistically and emotionally difficult.

“I want to go,” Ripley whispered.

“So do I.  But right this minute, patience is our best asset.”

Ripley looked like she wanted to disagree.  But that was based purely on the emotional.

Fear and pain and other things etched Ripley’s face, giving it lines and a kind of gauntness an eleven year old’s face shouldn’t have, with skin drawn tighter against bone.  It broke Mia’s heart in new ways every few seconds, when Ripley would move, or her eyes would fall on Mia, or someone else, or stare off into space while she was thinking, but she wouldn’t give that heartbreak up for anything, because her daughter was here, in her arms.

“I thought you’d send the police,” Ripley whispered.  “And they’d storm the place, and I could come out a bit after I heard the sirens.”

“The police aren’t trustworthy,” Mia whispered back.

“Because you’re a criminal?”

Ripley curled up a bit as she asked that, her head angled so the top of her head was pointed at Mia’s face, very much avoiding eye contact.  Still hugging tight.

“Because the bad guy has spent a while taking over everything, including the police.”

“Including my dad,” the boy said.

“Oh,” Ripley said.  “That makes some stuff at dinner make more sense.”

“Yeah,” Mia whispered back.

“But you are a criminal?”

“Yeah.  But it gets kind of topsy turvy when the cops are bad guys, right?”

“I guess.”

Mia had anticipated this conversation for a long time.  She wanted to be careful to give Ripley the space to navigate her own feelings.

Carson had stepped away, and was hiding near a pile of transparent blue plastic bags with waste in it, not far from the doorway to that tiled room where the doctors kept most of the essential supplies, tools, and machinery.  Most of the waste in the bags was blood-stained bandages and plastic containers from one-use medical paraphernalia.  And there was a lot of it.

Mia knew there were steps she needed to take, but this was vital too.  If Ripley felt abandoned or unheard, or if she balked, then it could cause problems at a vital moment in their escape.  If Mia could win her over, there was even a chance that Ripley might be willing to leave Natalie.

Was there a chance that, if she took Ripley over to the shelving and duct where Natalie was, that they could have a whispered conversation?

In one of the stories about Solomon, two mothers argued they should have a baby, and Solomon offered to cut that child in half.  The true mother forfeited her claim for the sake of the child.

Mia didn’t trust Natalie to forfeit like that for Ripley’s sake.

“You took me.  You admitted that.”

“Saved you.  When I found you in that car, you were hot.  Then I waited.  They were inside, so caught up in fighting, so much, they didn’t pay attention, didn’t see me, didn’t see you.  I waited for a long time.  If I hadn’t found you and if you’d been in that car, I don’t think you’d have made it.”

“They were fighting?  Sean too?”

Mia nodded.

“She’s still angry and fight-y, but it’s about you, instead.”

“It might be easier than being angry at herself.”

“I know Valentina is Davie’s daughter and that makes a kind of sense.  And why you kept it secret makes sense.”

“Yeah.”  Mia stroked Ripley’s head.

“Tyr?”

“His parents were awful people who were going to sell him.  To people who kill and record it.  So they can sell the recordings to other awful people.  It was almost an accident that I found him.”

“I hate this,” Ripley whispered, and her voice had a little quake in it.  “I hate that nothing’s okay.  Police, Davie, the people, you.  Dad.  It’s all awful.”

“I have been fighting- listen,” Mia interrupted herself to make sure she had Ripley’s full attention.  Ripley wiped at one eye.  Gently, Mia continued, “Listen.  I have been fighting all night with one goal in mind, okay?  To get you out, and get you to a place where things are okay again.  It’s not all awful.”

“It’s all-“ Ripley whispered, and she choked on her emotions, voice breaking up, body hitching.  She suppressed a cough, but that made everything else worse.

“Devon,” Mia whispered.  She stroked Ripley’s hair.  “Blair.  Devon’s stepdad.  His mom.  Blair’s parents.”

“They know.”

Mia’s heart sank.

“They know you took me.”

“I know they went to the hospital.  I hoped…”

“They know,” Ripley said, eyes on the floor.  “About the traps in the house.  Ben got video.  That you’re a criminal.”

A part of her had hoped this was salvageable.  A big piece of the reason she’d stayed was to let Ripley keep people she loved dearly.  As insane as it all was, a part of her had hoped that she could thread some needle, convince key people, like school administration.  Fake records.  Make it out to be a convoluted plot.  Rider and a corrupt judge, a journalist manufacturing a story, a mom who lost her kid trying to slot Ripley in.  She and Carson had broken into Natalie’s place and looked at some of Ben’s saved footage, when he had Ripley at the hospital.  The meeting with Maya could be used as ammunition, in painting that picture.

Or, in other circumstances, if Natalie, Ben, and Rider didn’t make it through tonight, due to bad luck or other circumstances… maybe a few outliers like the school could be convinced.  If media was shit and police were in shambles, and people could be convinced to take the route that ninety percent of the population seemed so eager to take – that easy, shortest path, then maybe she could get people to leave things alone.  That would buy time to obtain or manufacture more supporting evidence, tell a better story.  If someone felt like telling on her, but hesitated, then that hesitation could be extended, more doubt cast on Ben’s version of events.

Or people could be convinced to move.  Maybe something more alarmist.  Make police corruption clear, provide the evidence, convince them that due to associations, they had to run.  Make it up to them with money.  Then, separated from past ties… a life could be built elsewhere, with Ripley and the friends she loved, with Tyr, with Valentina, with Carson.

It was insane, but it was insane in a wider context of the city burning, and everything else falling to pieces.

A needle could be threaded through, somehow.

If the well was poisoned with Devon’s parents, that got so much harder.

Ripley seemed to have pieced that together too.  She looked so dejected.  Her teeth were chattering.

Blood loss.  Which would only get worse.

“If she loves you half as much as I love you, we find a way out of this, I save her life, I save yours, and we have hard conversations, ones where you’re priority number one.  Compromise.  Dual custody, maybe.  Or however you decide to split it up.  And while you’re with Natalie, you can spend more time with Devon and Blair, keep going to your old school.  Figure out what to do with your arm.”

Ripley leaned harder into Mia.  Mia rocked slightly, like she had when Ripley was a baby.

“Talking about it makes it hurt more.”

“Okay.  But maybe if we can’t find out a good way to fix it, you could have a really cool prosthetic.  One with tools loaded inside.  Imagine being a badass engineer, strutting your stuff, and you pop out a working tool.”

Ripley leaned in and hugged her tighter, one-armed.

“Is that okay to talk about?”

“Yeah,” Ripley whispered.  “Steampunk.”

“Do you want the aesthetic or actual steam power?”

“Dunno.  I want a lot of different arms.  Different styles for different occasions or moods.”

“What about a chainsaw arm, same style as the chainsaw in that Heir book?  Except as an arm?”

Ripley nodded.  Mia wondered if she was falling asleep.  And if she should keep Ripley from nodding off, if blood loss was a concern, or if it was easier to have her just one iota more rested, instead of being as drawn-out and worn down as she was.

“Might be noisy,” Ripley whispered.

“We could figure something out,” Mia whispered.  “What was that curly wood in that fantasy story?”

“Elderwood.”

“Elderwood arm?  Cosplay it?  Your friends could help design something.”

“I don’t think Natalie’s the compromising type,” Ripley whispered.

A change of subject.  Back to what they’d been talking about before.

I don’t think so either.

But I need you to believe there’s a way this can all be okay.

Mia decided this was the time to ask.

“Rip.  I need to leave you here and go talk to her.  Figure out if she can get out quietly, ask some other stuff.  I’m worried about a situation where both of you want to be heroic, when we’re in a situation so scary it might be impossible.  If she says she can’t get out, and her trying, or me and your dad trying to help risks making too much noise, and she wants you to go… is that okay?”

“No.”

Mia winced, clenching a fist Ripley couldn’t see.  Fuck.

“I’d always wonder.  Wouldn’t I?” Ripley asked.

“Okay.”

Ripley twisted back, out of the hug, and looked at Mia.  The look hurt- skeptical, wary.

“It was always, always the plan, that when you were old enough and we told you the full story, we’d show you all the people we’ve worked with, answer all the questions, and give you the ability to make your own decisions.  When we were rushing here to get to you, we were focused on that, finding a way past all of Davie Cavalcanti’s people, a way to get more help, some way to reach you.  Valentina -we gave her that same power, to make decisions, decide what’s right or wrong- she said to save a girl in trouble, and we did, and that’s how I hurt my shoulder.  You can ask her later.”

“If we make it.”

“Let’s assume we will.  Trying to get Natalie out will make it harder.  Do you want to come?  Talk to her too?  Are you feeling steady enough?

Ripley paused, then shook her head.

“I’m going to go.  You keep each other safe.  You’re doing well.”

Ripley and the boy nodded.

Mia checked the coast was clear, and, even so soon after mentioning her arm, tried to use it to steady herself, and found it a lot weaker than she’d expected.  She almost, almost banged her knee into the side of the ventilation unit, as she fell sideways.

The metal shelves were bolted to the wall, so Mia felt okay using one as a foothold to ascend.  She put her face close to the hatch.

“Natalie.”

“You.  Fuck you.”

How was Mia even meant to respond to that?  It wasn’t the time, and she wasn’t sure she wasn’t angrier, after seeing Ripley so hurt.

“You have no idea the amount of misery and pain you’ve put out into the world.  You own this, you’re how Davie Cavalcanti entered our lives.”

“He’s seizing control over the area, he’s entering everyone’s life.  If she grew up to be an engineer or reached even half her potential, ten, fifteen years from now?  She’d be caught up in things.”

“Not like this,” Natalie said, her voice hard.

“No,” Mia whispered.  “Please keep your voice down.  For her sake, if nothing else.”

“Fuck you.  You’re the most evil person I’ve ever met.  You have no idea the agony you’ve inflicted on others for your own selfish reasons.”

“Have you repeated and practiced that in your head for all these years?” Mia asked.

“Fuck you.”

“Would you believe you were a bogeyman to me, all these years?  I was terrified of the idea of you.”

“Good.”

“In a way, you still are.  If you keep being an idiot, swearing and fighting me, then Ripley doesn’t get out.  The idea you might be stupid and petty enough to let that happen.  I need-“

“Do you think you’re the hero in this scenario?”

“Ripley wants to get you out, so we’re getting you out,” Mia whispered, pushing forward.  “I’m going to ask you some quick questions.  We don’t have enough time.  If you delay or you don’t answer, you’re hurting Ripley.  You are handing her over to a man who will butcher her.”

A hand gripped Mia’s leg.

She couldn’t let herself flinch, or make a sound.

Carson.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Natalie or Rip?”

“Rip.  But you can tell me about Natalie too.”

“Hurt, scared, betrayed-“

“That’s you,” Natalie whispered.

“-her teeth are chattering.  She’s shaky, she’ll need a steadying hand, or be carried.  I think she’s lost blood and it hasn’t been replenished.  And that’s only going to get worse.”

“Davie showed up, as you came over this way.  He’s organizing people.  I think he’s feeling the pressure from people on the outside.  Ben’s diverted him, and I think they started a fire.”

“Ben did?”

Her husband dipped his head in a singular nod.

“Any specifics?”

“If I had them, I’d give them to you,” he told her.  “He’s calling the analyst upstairs to organize people and check some stuff.  The analyst is meant to come back down with a team and do a sweep of the basement.  Grid style.”

“How did you do with our shopping list?”

“Slipped in while everyone was showing up and looking attentive for Davie.  I got the kit for Rip.  In case you’re right.  Jugs are over by the bags I was huddled by.  I couldn’t get everything else.  Two suits.”

“Okay.  Keep an eye out?  We want to know their movements.”

Carson stepped up onto a shelf, leaned in, and kissed her, before leaving.

Mia never felt un-anxious.  But the kiss helped to still parts of her that were jittering and insecure.

“Natalie.”

“Monster.”

“When you damaged the generator, what did you do?”

“What?”

If there was any way Mia could kill Natalie and still thread that needle, keep Ripley happy, and find a way through this, she would be sorely tempted to now.

“What did you do?  Did you break it or remove something?”

“The belt.”

“Did you cut it, or did you take it?”

“I have it.  Sean, Camellia’s actual father, taught me about car maintenance.  Drive belts.  I thought, if it’s hard to get a car part, then taking something for the generator might be bad too.  And it was quieter to remove than breaking anything would be.  Then I came here.  When the power died, there was enough shouting and other noise I could get-“

“Can you give it to me, without banging in there?”  Mia was careful to frame it as a challenge, instead of a request for help.

“Yes.”

“Can you get out?  Without making noise?”

“I don’t think so.  I can back out, lie across the top of the shelves, but the metal pops.”

“Then wait for my cue.  Are you able to get the belt out of your pocket, or-?”

There was a faint strumming sound as it ran against the angled slats in the cover.

Mia’s shoulder screamed in agony as she used two hands to ease that cover down and open.

She took the belt, then closed it.

“Wait for my cue.”

“Fuck you.”

She crossed over to where Ripley was.  Carson was hunkered down, peeking around the edge of the ventilation setup.  The people by the generator were the closest, but they were preoccupied, trying to rig something on their own, to make up for the missing belt.  Three men.  Two were old for Cavalcanti soldiers- middle aged.  One was young.

Two more men were still with the doctors.

We have minutes.

“There isn’t enough time for anesthetic,” Carson whispered.

“You found some?”

“No time.”

“Rip, honey,” Mia whispered.  “I need you to be brave.”

Carson had the steadier hands right now.  So he unwrapped the bandage, exposing the stump, which was mottled with the texture of the bandage, blood pressed into creases.

Mia could remember when Ripley was tiny, a skinny little kid who’d squirmed at even the idea of a needle.

This was worse.

“Hold,” he told Mia.

She embraced Ripley, her body positioned to steady her, arm running past her, and used the band Natalie had given her to cut off blood flow to and from the stump.

She would have liked to use two hands for the better grip, but she didn’t trust her right one.  It helped that Ripley’s upper arm was so thin that Mia’s hand could almost encircle it with thumb and forefinger.

Ripley made a small sound, pulling.

“Rip, what heroines and heroes of the stories you’ve read could do this?” Mia asked.  “Who’s tough?  Who kicks ass at this sort of thing?”

“Ambrosius, but I’m not sure he even feels pain by the end.”

“Yeah.  That’d be nice.”

Small sound.

“Keep going.  Put your mind there.”

“Talk about something else?”

“Natalie can get out, she says.  But it’s noisy, so we’re waiting.  We’re going to try to flip the script on the bad guys here.  We’re going to take the tools they use and try to turn them against them.  If the power was turned on for the entire city, that would be nice, but I think we’re going to have to use the generator.”

“How?  That doesn’t make sense.”

“It won’t be easy.  But number one…”

Carson, having cut the sutures at the end of the stump, opened the flap.  Ripley jerked.  Blood had clotted, and skin stuck together.  Now that had to be separated.

Mia was strong enough that when Ripley pulled, it didn’t break her grip.  Her grip itself had a strength given to it by the Fall.  An unawareness of her own pain, strain, and difficulty.  Ripley had no such benefit.

Davie Cavalcanti was a bastard.

From within, Carson fished out the tracker.

Ripley made a small gagging sound.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Mia shushed her.

“I don’t like that that was in me.”

“I know, okay.  Don’t look.  Almost done.”

They’d had enough experience tending to wounds.  Carson was fast with the suturing needle.

The moment they were done, Mia had to go.  She couldn’t waste time, when the agent could be back anytime soon, and the guys by the generator were trying to make something out of their own belts.  She kissed the top of Ripley’s head.  Then she unplugged the ventilation system, so it wouldn’t flip on if Ripley was inside, and she took the tracker.

She used the end of her own shirt to wipe the rubber belt clean.  When the men were focused on adjusting the length of the makeshift belt, she strode forward, ducking low, and put the rubber belt where the plastic sheeting piled up on the ground.

The time window to get this done was between when the analyst came down with a crew of people to start the sweep, and the sweep finishing.  Assuming it started close to the door, and they were checking every shelf and fixture, it would be a couple minutes.

She pitched the tracker into the corner opposite where Ripley and Carson were, amid shelves and boxes.

There were a dozen possibilities there.

This basement was Davie’s insurance.  It was his escape route, his guarantee.  It was where he kept his prizes.  He was supplied.

That included gas for the generators.

She grabbed a plastic case.

Her right arm was a mess, and Tyr could have beat her in an arm wrestle, it felt like, even if she took the pain out of the equation.  But it still worked enough that she could reach out, grab a box cutter, sticking it into her waistband, and then get a nearly-empty plastic bag.

Footsteps.

She ran forward, toward the footsteps, controlling her foot placement to make as little sound as possible.

She placed herself behind the door, waiting.

It was more people.

The time window was slipping away.

“Fuck, this is heavy, it’s digging into my fingers,” one man said.

“Stop bitching.”

They were bringing cases downstairs.  Beelining straight for the patients.

She had to assume these were Davie’s trusted.  People who could see what he was doing as a pasttime and not run screaming, or turn on him.

That wouldn’t be everyone, but as he asserted more control over the group, it would include more people.  Probably, she guessed, they were his people, where others had longer-standing loyalties to Nicholas, Andre, the butcher, or the other guys out of town.

She wondered if there was something they could leverage there.  If Davie was keeping his people close to the house, and the people with loyalties and relationships built up in Nicholas’s or Andre’s camp were out in the woods, or on the fringes.

Carson would know more about that sort of dynamic.  He’d have instincts on what to expect.

If this worked, they might see, in any event.

Was it better to wait, or to deal with the additional people?

She didn’t hear noise upstairs, and she saw movement of the new people, restless, on the one side of the plastic sheeting.

She decided to wait.

They dropped off what they had to drop off, and got the hell out.  They didn’t like this, they didn’t want to be a part of it.

The door at the top of the stairs shut firmly.

It sounded quiet, but she wasn’t sure she trusted her ears.  The tornado sirens were a low, groaning, aching whine, more audible near the open door.

She’d taken soap from the bathroom while they’d been talking to Danny, Davie’s beaten son.

Now she ascended the stairs, and she laid out lines of the stuff.  The stairwell was dark.  The plastic squeaked against plastic as she depressed the nozzle at steady intervals.

Best to do it on the two stairs near the top where there was the least light.

With the box cutter, she sliced her black t-shirt, caked in mud, dust, and blood, damp with her own sweat.  One cut extended from the collar down, another went across the shoulder, to the end of the sleeve.  Cutting it off was easier than pulling it off with her shoulder being in the state it was.

It wasn’t enough to bridge the gap, but it was weight.  The plastic bag served for the rest.  She could slice it, then lay it across.  The contents of the bag, a series of fixtures for furniture, weighed down one side of the plastic. The shirt weighed down much of the rest.

She emptied the gas canister into the base of the stairwell, face turned away.  The barrier she’d rigged at the bottom kept it from leaking out.  Most of it.  It pooled on the square of concrete, on one side of the door.

She eased that door nearly shut.

I put the rubber belt where you should see it, she thought.  Where it’s plausible you missed it before.

Figure out how to put it on, start up the generator, turn on the lights.

She had to imagine her enemies were competent, then be pleasantly surprised if they weren’t.  She removed the top portion of the bottle and emptied more soap into the expanding puddle of gasoline that was leaking past the barrier.

Then she drew her gun.

The generator roared to life, on the other end of the expansive basement.

Lights flickered, not quite there, then turned on.

Give it a minute.  Let the computers turn on.  Let them find the tracker’s location.

Let them find their footing.

“We’re set!” one of the men who’d fixed the generator hollered.

Mia backed away to where some shelves gave her a semblance of cover, while maintaining a view of the door.

Does the analyst lead the way?

She could hear the commotion.  They were coming down as an organized group.

There.  Someone fell down the stairs.

That someone landed in the gasoline at the base.  Hacking, coughing, sloshing, he pushed at the door and they broke the seal, letting gasoline leak out.

Two someones.

They froze when they spotted her with her gun out.

A third leaped past them, one hand gripping the top of the doorframe, to keep from bashing his head.  Jeans, holster across the body, holster at one thigh.

The analyst.

He hit the puddle of gasoline with soap on it that she had set up just past the barrier.  His feet hit ground and went out from under him.  But there was a flash.

The sound of the gunshot followed, more delayed than she might’ve expected.  Or maybe it was the jumble of sensations, her body telling her she’d been punched, hard, and then getting around to processing the sound, past tense.

That hadn’t been the plan.  She’d wanted to take them at gunpoint, delay the people upstairs knowing anything was up.  Failing that, she’d wanted the fumes from the gasoline vapor to be a deterrent.

But he’d gotten past, and had placed his first shot before he’d slipped.

Now the people upstairs knew.  Now she had a hole in her leg, with no idea how bad it was.

He coughed, wiping at one eye as he got his gun hand out from under him.

Lying on her side, now, head leaning at an awkward angle against the lowest shelf, using her non-dominant hand, she shot back.

Miss.

She kept shooting.  Miss, miss, miss.  Bullets took small chunks out of the concrete wall around him.  One clipped a shelf.

She fired her fifth shot at the same time he placed his second.  He hit the shelf she was using for cover, very close to her face.  She wasn’t sure if it was shrapnel from the bullet that caught her eye, or if it was grit it had kicked up.  Her bullet hit him.

She’d wanted something methodical, taking gradual control.  Hostages here, while securing the door.  Then the group by the doctors.

Now that group was coming for her.

And the guy she’d shot was down, a hole in his ribs, possibly going through a lung, but he had a gun in his hand and he was aware of her, trying to take aim.

His gun hand was probably feeling a lot like her right arm.

The sirens wailed in the background.  Footsteps tramped above.

She could barely get up off the ground.  Worse, getting up meant posing a bigger target, if he decided to shoot.  Men were coming from her right flank, pushing their way past plastic sheeting.

The analyst indicated where she was for the benefit of the men flanking her.

They opened fire.

Too much distance separated them for her to shoot them, or them to get a good hit on her.  But she was forced to keep her head down.

Need to shut the door, at least.  Securely.

She waited.

Carson appeared behind the five other men.

He settled behind the generator, arms straight out in front, gun in hand, head level with arms and weapon both, and then opened fire.

Three dropped in short order.

A fourth turned, responding, but he was more in the open -the basement was mostly open space- and Carson was behind cover.  They exchanged three shots each, in what would have been a sad looking scene in an action movie, the man walking to one side, Carson steady.  Carson’s last two hit, with one making the man stagger and the other taking the top of his forehead off.

Mia extended her own hand, aiming in their direction, and shot too.

It was a distraction.  A young man didn’t even have the sense to get it together and shoot once by the time one of his seniors had shot three times.  Then he was hearing gunshots from two directions.

“Drop it!” Carson hollered.

He didn’t, but he didn’t do a good job of turning on Carson or taking aim, either.  He wobbled, raised a gun, aiming it in Carson’s general direction, if Mia was being generous, and then got hit by Carson before he could narrow down to ‘actual general direction’ or Carson himself.

The analyst shot at Mia again.  It seemed to take concerted effort for him to get his gun level, with the hole in his ribs.

“Three hundred and fifty thousand!” Mia called out.

“What?”

“If you switch sides.  We get you medical care and help.”

“I think he has better doctors.”

“They’re ours, now,” Mia said.  I hope.

She had to fight her way to a half-standing position, one foot off the ground to keep her leg from having to bear weight, and kept her body behind the densest cluster of boxes and supplies on the shelf.

He pushed himself more to an upright sitting position, instead of being slumped over, and then called out, “Okay!”

“Gun down, slide it across the floor!” Mia called out.

He did.

“Second gun!”

He did the same.

“And lift your pants legs!” Mia called out.

She really needed to get that door shut.

He started to, then broke into coughs as he provoked his injury, doubling over.

Carson was focused on the doctors.  One had pushed plastic sheeting aside to see what was going on, and now stood frozen.

The analyst rose awkwardly to his feet, one hand at his knee.

“Stop!” Mia called out.  “Don’t-!”

Hand slipped from knee to the ankle holster.  He drew and aimed at Carson in a singular motion.

But Mia’s warning had been enough, and the draw was awkward, especially when the coughing fit was legitimate and body-wracking.

Carson shot the man dead.

She forced herself to move, choosing a route that let her lean on things.

She didn’t feel pain like she should, after the Fall.  She knew there was pain, and that her body wasn’t moving like it should, but the extent of it was hard to measure.  Thigh muscles trembled.

“Get to me!” Carson called out.  “I can’t take my eyes off them!”

She knew.

Limping badly, she reached the door, coaxing the two men who she hadn’t shot to come outside.  They were coughing badly, staggering, bleary-eyed.  They’d tried to go back upstairs and had slipped back down.

Holding her breath, squinting, Mia glanced up.

She shut the door, careful to keep the metal between herself and the bulk of the gas, in case the fumes ignited.

“Move.  Fast.”

They did.

“Any chance I could get that cash?” one of the two asked, clearly more nervous than good-humored.  But making the joke anyway.

“Shut up,” his friend said.

“Are you an ex-government spook from an organization that doesn’t exist?” Mia asked, back.

“Maybe.”

“No,” she told him.  “Come on.”

Single-minded doggedness kept her moving forward, and when they hesitated a second too long, it meant she had to stop, find that doggedness all over again, and resume limping.

The blood wasn’t bad enough to suggest something arterial, and it hadn’t shattered her bone, or her leg wouldn’t hold her up, but it had gone through a major muscle and just walking fifty feet had her breathing hard, a good part of her leg feeling like heavy stone, the rest feeling weak.

“Zip ties,” Carson said.  He’d already given some to doctors, who had obliged, tying their hands.

“Ripley?” Mia asked.  “Are you up to walking?”

Ripley climbed to her feet.  The boy supported her.

“Get Natalie to come down?  The basement is mostly secure.”

Ripley nodded.

“Okay?” Carson asked, as they got the prisoners settled.  “Let me look at that leg.”

She nodded.

“What happened to your shirt?” Carson asked.

“Used it for wadding.”

“Why don’t we do more jobs where we need more wadding?” he asked, tone light.

“If we did, we’d make sure we came supplied with it.”

“True that.  We’ve got your jeans half off too.”

“You only have to ask if you want me to take my clothes off,” she told him.  She watched the prisoners, because Carson was too busy trying to make sure there was pressure on the wound.

“We have one terrific daughter, you know that right?  She’s brave, and she was really tough, while I stitched her up and bandaged the wound.”

“Yeah.”

“She gets that from you.”

“I’m not sure,” she murmured.

Natalie was climbing free.

“What are we thinking?” he asked, quiet.

“Were those gunshots you?” Natalie asked, as she stalked her way over.  “Are you an idiot?  We’re now stuck in a basement, surrounded.  What the hell were you thinking?”

Unintentionally echoing Carson.

“It wasn’t my first choice,” Mia said.  “The shooting part.  The rest… unavoidable, I think.  We were already surrounded.  Getting out was always going to be harder than getting in, if we had to get you out of that vent.”

“I’m sorry,” Ripley said.

“No, no need to apologi-”

“You don’t get to talk to her,” Natalie said, reaching for Ripley.  Ripley pulled away.

Carson took another minute.  Mia waited, and they listened.  People were upstairs.

Carson paused, midway through the bandaging.  “Do you hear that?”

“Barely,” Natalie said.

“No,” Mia replied.

“Knock, knock?”

“Are they trying to barter?  Or lure us into the stairwell?”

“Find the source of the sound?” he asked Natalie.

She hesitated.

“Everyone does their part,” Ripley said.  “Except me, I guess.”

“You toughed this out,” Mia told her.  “Remember what I said about patience?  Time is on our side.  Right now, the tornado sirens are blaring, warning about fire.  The warning stations should be reinforcing that idea of fire coming.  Ben and Rider set a fire… hopefully somewhere where the smoke can reach here, but the fire won’t.  Hopefully.  We’ve targeted them over days and nights, whittling away at their organization, their leadership.  Brought back old enemies of theirs, got other enemies to target them, by giving them information.”

“He’s still building something.  He made some major people his vassals,” Ripley said, shaking her head a bit.

“It’s pressure,” Carson said, backing Mia up.  “Every little thing is some strain.  He really values these macabre trophies of his.  Now he doesn’t have them.  He doesn’t have his doctors, and if he loses them, they have to be hard to replace.”

“I was thinking that with Nicholas and Andre dead or injured, those branches of the family probably aren’t happy.  Especially if they’re out in the woods, with the smoke and sirens, and he’s keeping loyalists here.  People who know about his… activities,” Mia said.

“I found the sound,” Natalie said, striding back toward them.  “They’re cutting through the floor.  Axes, I think.”

“How did you handle the stairwell?” Carson asked.

“Gasoline and gas fumes,” Mia said.

“That’d do it.”

“Now we need to take the house,” she said.  “Gas won’t do it, and I wouldn’t put it past him to light the match if we leaned on that too much.  At least the stairwell is concrete.  This is a bunker.  He’d hurt himself more than he hurt us.”

“Agreed,” Carson said.

“Plastic,” she said.  “We can use the sheeting.  Your name?”

She’d asked the boy.

“Bryan.”

“Can you help?”

“I can try.”

“We want to block the vents,” she said.

Her head swam when she raised it to take in the full dimensions of the basement.  The ductwork snaked across the entire ceiling.

“Key areas, there, there, there, and there.  Those are the main exit points.”

“They’re caged,” Ripley said.  “I crawled a bit, I saw.  Before Natalie went up.”

“Yeah.  I know.  That’s good, and I have questions, but the main thing is that air still flows in and out through there.  The more we can do to block the way there, and this is important, without getting too close to the exit itself, because people are standing guard outside, the better.”

Bryan looked like his head was swimming with everything she was saying.  She wasn’t sure he got it.

“For right now, there’s a set of stepladders by a shelf over there.  For every hatch like that one-”

She pointed to the one Natalie had climbed through.  It opened from below and had the rows of slits for air to flow out.

“-open it, put sheeting across, then close it.”

She used her hands to gesture.

“When you don’t know what to do, and you don’t see more… find me.”

Bryan nodded.

“You too, Natalie.”

“You’re insane.”

“Please,” Ripley insisted.  “She’s good at projects.”

“I know.  I saw the traps going off in Ben’s video.”

“Then can we please agree, every single person here hates Davie Cavalcanti,” Mia said.  “I want to do that to him.  Turn the house against him.”

“Okay.”

“What you did, Natalie,” Mia said.  “Turning off the life support?  Forcing him to divert assets and attention to them?  I know that must have been hard, but it was smart.”

Natalie gave her a long, hard look.  Then her eyes fell on Ripley.

“That was her idea.”

Mia turned.

Ripley’s eyes fell to the ground.

“She is smart,” Natalie said.  “And tough.  It was a good idea.  I thought I should be the one to carry it out.  For obvious reasons.”

“Good,” Mia said.  “That was good.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you.  What parent would?”

Ripley spoke up, “I want to ask them.  If they want help.  If they want…”

She trailed off.

“You’re wobbly on your feet.  Do you want to do the asking?” Mia asked her.  “Since you’ll be sitting around?”

“She’s eleven,” Natalie said, affronted.

“Natalie,” Mia replied, turning.  “Stepladder, sheeting.  Help Bryan.  This is vital.”

Ripley nodded her encouragement.

Natalie shot Mia a look of pure hatred.

But she went.  Bryan trotted after.

“You don’t have to,” Mia told Ripley.

“Won’t you be sitting around?  You were shot in the leg.”

“I have other work to do.  A lot.”

“Oh.”

“Will you be more upset if we didn’t ask, or if you have to ask and then face them?”

“Mia,” Carson said.  “I think she might not know how much it would stay with her.”

“That cuts both ways.  Whatever the decision she makes is.”

“I’ll ask,” Ripley said.

“Okay,” Mia told her.  She ran a hand over Ripley’s hair, fixing the hair that was close to getting into her eye.

“You’re as set as I can get you.  That’s going to bleed like hell at the slightest excuse.”

She nodded.

“Want me on the job of sealing things up?”

“Can you set up the jugs?  And block the way to the exterior vents?  You can put the block at any point between the vent and the nearest fork.”

“I might need to enlist help.  My side.”

“Okay.”

She could hear the axe doing its work.  She could hear the distant sirens.

It was to their advantage that the house was built well.  That the wood for the floors was expensive, thick, possibly layered over heating elements, insulation, or soundproofing.  Especially with the basement being the horror show it was.  That the basement itself was a bunker.

Davie, Mia imagined, had his own anxieties.  Maybe they took a different shape than a normal person’s, but nobody who didn’t have some worries about the world would prep, build security measures, and store various equipment, supplies, and tools on this level.  It was as if he wanted to know the world above could burn, and he could emerge from here with all the amenities.

Not ‘prepping’ in the conventional sense.  Mia had prepped in that sense.  But still, instead of setting things up in the world, like a bunker and backup places, places he could set up and abandon, he’d built this.  He’d supplied it.

He’d made it hard to break into, and easy to use as an escape route.  An escape route Mia hadn’t riddled out.

“Ripley.  A question,” she asked, as Ripley finished talking to one person.

“Yeah?”

“Did you see any buttons, levers, panels, or anything, in the ventilation?  Especially near the exit vents?”

“No.”

Maybe it was a rumor that they were meant for escape.  Or maybe it wasn’t that thought out.

Or she hadn’t figured it out and likely never would.

Mia worked.  Ripley talked to the armless, legless victims of Davie.  Bryan, Carson, and Natalie sealed the ducts.  Carson used a spray sealant wherever screws stuck through.

The sound of the axes reached an audible level, suggesting they were past a certain threshold, and were close.

“Full body suits,” Mia asked.  “For cleanup, hazards.  Like a crime scene tech might wear.”

She enlisted Carson’s help.

The sound of the axes marked their closing deadline.

She helped carry Ripley over.  She helped Ripley get dressed.  It made her think of the early days, when Ripley had been Tyr’s age.  They hadn’t yet figured out what she liked to wear.  So many fights.

Ripley was oddly complacent and withdrawn, here.

None of this was easy.

“Did any of them say they want to keep going?”

Ripley shook her head.

“Okay.”

“I’ll ask the doctors.  If we can trust Natalie and Bryan to get geared?  They aren’t as injured,” Carson said.

Mia nodded.

Mia resumed her work.  Ripley watched with idle interest.  She did with anything techy.

“You’ve loved machines and tech since before you were able to talk.”

“Still do,” Ripley murmured.  “Natalie said Sean loves cars.  Works on them.”

“She mentioned something like that.  Yeah,” Mia murmured, voice soft.  It was like she couldn’t put her heart into the words, so they came out thin and overly gentle.

It wasn’t blood loss.  With lower awareness of the nuances of pain, she had to be aware of things like that.  The cues of her body that weren’t her nerves transmitting agony.

Like Ripley’s were, right now.

“I really need everything to stop sucking so much,” Ripley said.  “I want to go find Blair and Devon and hug them to death.”

It was clear, from the angle of how Ripley held herself, and the way she kept her back turned.  Carson had set a doctor the task, and the doctor was administering morphine, glancing periodically at Mia.

Carson, meanwhile, motioned at the vents.  Mia nodded.

He’d left stepladders at key areas.  Now he ascended, quickly.  Hatch open, a cap or lid removed here.

He had good senses for it.  The vents weren’t completely level.  So there were places for liquid to accumulate.  He sprayed one spot where liquid was leaking through, hurrying to the next, hand gripping his injured side.

The doctor kept helping people on their way in the same way the Angel of Death had, a little less willingly.  Ripley kept ignoring it all.  Shutting down.

“I don’t know if this helps or hurts, but I have to believe it gets us one step closer to you being with your friends,” Mia said.  “Away from this.”

She would’ve liked more time to double check, and to check that everything was working.  The axes were cutting through.

People could be dropping in any minute now.

She’d cut a large hole into the side of a plastic container.  That hole was fixed over the air intake of the ventilation.  Duct tape and sealant helped close the gap.

“Masks!” she called out.

People did as suggested.

Undiluted ammonia.  Straight bleach.  Into the container.  Davie had prepared.  He had jugs of the stuff.

Then, where she’d torn the side of the ventilation system open, she touched two wires.  Bypassing any outside remotes or control panels, turning it immediately to maximum speed, where it would stay.

“Wait!” a doctor called out.  He’d seen one of the jugs and realized what she was doing.  “Give me a suit!”

She twisted the wires together with rubber-handled pliers, then shut the case, before standing, awkwardly.

They’d donned the full-body suits.  Smoke masks were strapped tight to the head, spray sealant and duct tape used to keep anything from leaking in past the edges of the mask, or past zippers.  The same oxygen that had been used for Davie’s trophies was now improvised air supply.

“Hey!” the doctor shouted.

Another man coughed.  He’d caught a trace of it.  He coughed again, more violently.

“I did as you asked,” one doctor said, hand over his nose and mouth.

“Lock yourself in there,” Mia said, pointing.   “Block the vents.  Hurry.”

They, many with hands tied behind them, hurried.

Chloramine gas, from ammonia and bleach.  And chloroform gas, from acetone and bleach.  Carson had placed jugs here and there in the vents, beneath Danny’s room, opening them shortly before she’d switched on the ventilation.

Now the ventilation system that was meant to carry fresh air through the house was pumping concentrated toxic gas through it.

At a high concentration, which she really hoped they were getting, the effects would come on fast and hard.  Breathing issues, vision issues, lightheadedness, mental issues, vomiting, headache.

A whiff could leave someone with mild symptoms for up to twenty-four hours.

The house filled with poisonous gas.

Patience, she thought.

She could hear the noise above.  The shouts.

Then a silence, interrupted by a sudden explosion.

With measured movements, quiet, they moved across the basement, bringing a stepladder.

The hole in the ceiling was their best way up.  But they had to move carefully, so nothing tore or caught.  Mia was already sweating, condensation collecting inside the suit, and on the inside of the smoke mask.  Her injury didn’t help.  Her leg could support her weight, but it really didn’t want to.

Davie had been evicted from his headquarters.

There were lights on upstairs.  People had dropped things on their way to running.  They moved carefully, because there would be gas outside the house, but not as much.  If anyone out there was poised, waiting, with a gun, they could shoot through the windows.

A button on the wall that Valentina had mentioned lowered the window covers, blocking their view of the outside, and vice-versa.  In the computer room, some of the easier to move pieces of equipment had been carried away.  Some laptops, but not all.

To get access to data at the hospitals, she’d set up RATs at four of them.  Remote access trojans.  She plugged in a USB thumb-drive, then rebooted the computer.

Hold down the right keys… go to boot.

Switch priorities.

Reset again.

The computer was hers.

It wasn’t an older operating system without security, so that was where her management of things stopped.  It had never been especially important to learn how to get past a login screen.  It had been important that she have a means of seeing what the hospital saw, records-wise, and manipulating the data.

Most of what she did was prey on the obvious weak points.  Surface-level.

So she couldn’t go deep here.  She could only go wide.

Multiple computers, same approach.  Same stopping point.

A part of her had hoped that she could find an unattended computer and get access to the drones.  She’d hoped she could get control of one of the big military ones, and point it at Davie, and other leadership figures.  Everything obvious had been locked or auto-locked.  She wasn’t capable of getting past that barrier, stupid and minor as it was.

Even clicking ‘I forgot my password’.  That required an internet connection, and probably pinged a phone.

Phones.

She checked each in turn.

Not her area of expertise, except for sniffing cell signals, and she didn’t have the setup to do that here.

People, so often, were the weak point in security.

All it took was one idiot at a company clicking a link.

She checked one phone with a graffiti-style case.  It lit up.  No password or verification required.

Or one idiot who wanted convenience, instead of a face scan, thumb scan, PIN, or other verification.

An idiot who’d been here, with the tech guys.

A check of recent messages verified why.  He’d been sent to pick up a drone that had fallen or gotten tangled in something.  They’d linked back to the same setup they were using to coordinate.  So he could have the coordinates and a view of what the drone saw.

There were others.  Overhead shots.  Views of drones that were racing across the sky, scanning the ground.

At the foot of the hill, a decorative strip of trees, bushes, and grass between two sections of road had been set on fire.  People were working to handle it, because the wind blowing in a specific direction seemed to be blowing licks of flame all the way across the road.  Burning leaves, maybe.

Mia wondered if Ben and Rider had planned around the eventuality of fire reaching this house, while Mia, Carson, Ripley, Bryan, and Natalie were all within, still.  Or maybe they’d thought Mia was a lot more impatient than she was.

And views of Davie’s group, a healthy distance from the house.

People were angry.  They had to be.

They’d lost a majority share of everything.  Business, contacts, resources.  They’d lost territory, they’d lost supply chains.  They’d lost sons, brothers, cousins, and friends.  They’d been reduced down to this house and they’d lost it too.

So Davie was losing the branches of the family that were more loyal to Nicholas, Andre, and the others.

Or so Mia assumed.  The chunks were large and cohesive.

He still had some mercenaries, and police, by the looks of it.  He still had the drones.

Mia watched the man open the trunk of a car, get out a large glass bottle, and then stuff a rag into it.  He handed it to one of his subordinates.

If he’d didn’t care about the house, she doubted he cared about the mountainside, or the risk to the city.  She’d seen his underground setup.  He might have put a lot of eggs in one basket, but his ideology was clear.  He expected to rise up and be okay after the chaos.  After things burned to ashes.

He’d burn them out.

It was a good move, and it was one she didn’t know how to handle.

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Entering the house, Mia was more focused on retaining and using information than she had been when she had been trying to keep the entire Cavalcanti operation in her head.  With her sleeve over her left hand, she wiped dirt and forest grit off the soles of her shoes, before setting them on hardwood.

The disaster sirens screamed.  If a baby’s scream was honed by years of evolution to tug at the heartstrings and make the parent act, the siren was engineered to make her go, to make her feel small.  To make it clear there was something bigger than her at play.

Which fit.  The closer she got to Ripley, the more she itched to act.  She needed to save her.  She was so close.  Ripley, right this moment, could be under her feet, part of the house.

Ripley was a natural speed reader.  It had come from an early love of reading that Mia had nurtured and Rip wanted to read so much that she’d worked out ways to get through a book faster.  By the end of an early-grade book, she’d have grasped it in totality.  She’d been a proud bookworm.  She’d torn through readings so fast her second grade teacher had taken issue with it.

It was also a method with its drawbacks.  The same teacher had assigned a reading with a list of questions to answer after, as an evaluation in class, and Ripley had struggled with it.  A good teacher figured out a student’s challenges, but this bitch had instead taunted Ripley for not being a reader after all, and called her a liar in front of the class.  After a few hours settling a distraught Ripley, after school had ended for the day, Mia had worked through things with her daughter to figure out the glitch in how Ripley read.  Rip focused on the tops of words instead of digesting the letters individually or subvocalizing, picked up the more relevant information at the start and end of sentences and paragraphs, anticipated and caught verbs and names on the way, and then inferred to fill gaps.  Her glance was like a skipping stone on the surface of the water, catching relevant information on the way.  In the process, Ripley’s eyes would naturally and repeatedly skip over a weirdly constructed bit of dialogue containing the name she was supposed to identify for two of the questions in the evaluation.

Mia had worked with Ripley to figure out ways to slow down and take in more detailed information when required, when there wasn’t a whole rest of a novel to read and resolve any blanks or gaps with.

Mia had contemplated doing something to get the teacher out of Ripley’s life, but had decided against it, with her personal rules, and the fact she’d had her hands full with Tyr.  Mostly, she’d celebrated, that Ripley had unique ability.  That there was kinship there.  Because Mia had done something similar.

Mia had learned about memory palaces as an older teen and thought that’s what I’ve been doing all along.  Maybe it was innate.  Maybe it was a reaction to the Fall, when her memory had been all she’d had, and she’d wanted to hold onto it, instead of letting memories distort slightly with every recollection.  It was key to her work, remembering the details, remembering names, who was where, what identities could be dredged up, repackaged, and sent to someone, and who and what was in play.

In that way, she could keep the entirety of the Cavalcanti family, such as it appeared online, straight in her head.  People, the city, it wasn’t that complex.  Too many people were idiots, taking the shortest routes to their destinations, moved only by big life events and crisis.  Illness, accidents.

Now, without giving that up, she had to set it aside.  A house of cards framed in the back of her mind, or a webwork of pictures and interconnected threads, drawn up on her computer instead of a corkboard.  She couldn’t let a thread drop, or let two similar pictures get swapped.  With that ginger care, she moved to a shelf in case she needed it, while she built and expanded on another.

Thinking about Ripley was a kind of agony.  Her heart had been ripped out of her chest.  It made everything worse.  Headache, tension, pain.  She was so close.

So she tried to maintain focus, as a way of putting all of that out of mind.  Anything had to be more constructive than dwelling or worrying.  She built using the house Valentina had drawn and the house from the outside as reference.  She added the glimpses she’d seen of it in the background of two thousand pictures that had been posted on social media.  Davie didn’t take many, nor did Valentina or her brother, but Davie’s wife and his youngest posted with some frequency.  Other images were from events, when Davie hosted some family around holidays, or when distant relatives were in town.

A wall here, a bookshelf there.  Table over there.  In her mental picture of things, it was a three dimensional blueprint, with flashes of detailed reality cutting through it, as seen in pictures, or glimpsed through windows.  She filled it in, and expanded the blueprint here and there.

Davie had gone outside, and others had gone with him, but the house wasn’t empty.  Carson was more focused on the people and being quiet, and apparently heard something, because he pulled on Mia’s good arm.

She shook her head.  “Dead end.”

He took her into another room, where the light coming in from the front window was giving things the faintest orange light.

It was hard to hear everything with the tornado sirens ongoing, but the volume of conversation and footsteps swelled as people moved down the hall.

“You get water.  As large a container as you can fill and carry.  You, see why the group in the garage is taking so long.  And you-”

“I don’t take orders.”

“He said everyone should listen, and do whatever-”

“No.  Not me.  Not the two men they call the cousins.  If there’s any issue, I’ll tell the boss I wasn’t taking orders, okay?”

He sounded so matter of fact about it.  Like a parent who knew something to be absolute fact, to an anxious child.

He went on, “There won’t be an issue.  You.  Get me a glass.  I don’t know where things are.”

“I don’t know if we can just take a glass from the kitchen.”

“I can.  A glass of water.  Then take two with you, go do a patrol of the exterior vents.  If anyone’s gone or if there are issues, we want to know sooner.  If anyone else gives you an order, you tell them this came from me.  Even if it’s the boss…”

He moved out of earshot.  Mia remained still and quiet, in case Carson could hear it better.  She wondered if the gunshot in the enclosed space back when they’d dealt with Nathaniel in the bathroom had hurt her hearing.  Before Davie Cavalcanti had even been in the picture.  There was still a faint, perpetual whine to accompany with the unending headache and tension that she had from the Fall.

“Okay,” Carson whispered.

“What was that last part?  I didn’t hear.”

“He’s checking on other people Davie hired.  I think he’s worked with them before, he’s bringing them water.”

Water sounded nice.  It was warm, from the summer heat, and the warmth had a stickiness that the faint trace of smoke in the air only seemed to amplify.  As if it stuck to the inside of the nostrils and made her feel congested.  Stuck to the skin, and made it worse at dealing with the sweat.

“Do you hear him?”

Carson shook his head.  “Hard to tell.”

Mia closed her eyes.  The house, the layout.  There was a room above the garage with large windows on two sides.  A media room, that worked like a second living room, but Valentina and her brother hadn’t used it, because it was more Davie’s, close to Davie’s room.  When they had watched things in the living room, or while the youngest daughter did, their stepmother would talk over the next day’s meal plan with staff, then retire to that room.  Most of the time.  When she’d seen it from the outside, there had been activity there.  Lights on, people, but the windows were tinted in a way that obscured what was within.  Especially there, where the glare would impact TV watching.

Presumably, if they’d kept working with Davie, they’d have moved on to working from there, instead of the open warehouse space they’d been situated in, brightly lit, concrete floors, corrugated metal walls, wires and guards everywhere.

“Computer staff,” Mia whispered.  “Drones, and-“

Carson put a finger to his lips.

People came back through the hallway.  Mia itched to get going before Davie came back into the house, or before things got busier.  Because they had to get out, too.  With Ripley.

The people disappeared down the end of the hall.

“Okay,” Carson whispered.  He reached for the door.

“The man who was just talking, the two cousins in the woods, possible one or two others, new drone pilots, tech staff,” Mia whispered.

“Minimum five mercenaries?”

“Total unknowns,” she whispered back.  Unknowns she hadn’t researched.  Unknowns with capabilities.  Unknowns who could have skills in the same way Highland and Bolden had skills.

Carson nodded his acknowledgement of that, a tight motion, then eased the door open.  He paused, not even poking his head through, and Mia held her breath.

Then he led the way.

Down the hall.

The door to the basement.  It had a number code.

If she could tear it out of the wall, she could break in, but then the next person to pass by might know something was up.  She could tear it out and push it back in, but depending on the way it was built, that wouldn’t necessarily be possible.  It could even be that tearing it out in the first place would be too hard, too noisy.

She used the backs of her fingers to double tap his arm, then pointed.

This would be a risk, a massive gamble.

She opened a bedroom door.

It was occupied.

Carson eased the door shut.

“Danny,” Carson whispered.  They’d gotten his name from Valentina.

Danny was beaten so bad only one eye would open, hair matted to the side of his head with blood, neck swollen and bruised, eased his way to a sitting position with care, clearly hurting in ways that weren’t just face and neck.

“Did he hire you?” he asked, voice quiet.  He wheezed as he breathed.  His eye moved, while the rest of him was still.  Taking in details like where Carson had been bleeding.

“We’re with Gio,” Carson whispered.  “She has a different name now.”

“Does my father know you’re here?”

Mia shook her head.

“Is she okay?  Gio?”

Mia answered, “She has a new family now.  She’s loved.  She’ll be loved more, when there is less chaos and crisis getting in the way.  She has a little brother and sister, now.  She’s on her way to being okay.”

“Did she ask you to come for me?”

“No,” Mia replied.

“Good.  Good, told her not to.”

“We’re here for Ripley.  We need the code to the basement.  Do you know it?”

“Ripley, right.  Saw her earlier.”

“Is she okay?”

“Nobody here is.”  He paused, his expression changing, then he said something that was clearly not what he’d been planning to say, “My dad’s men thought they might have escaped.  Then my dad said no.  That she’s still here.”

Mia nodded.

“He said to keep them pinned.  Watch any exit points.  Patrol regularly.  Once the power comes back on, they’ll know where they are.”

“Tracker?  Heat sensor?  Something in the vents?  Or-?”

Carson touched Mia’s arm.

She fell silent.

“Hide,” Carson whispered.

There was a large closet.  She walked inside, stepped on luggage, and hid behind clothes.  She hated that she was framed like she was, in this moment.

Carson left the closet door ajar, dropping clothing so it blocked it from fully opening, making it look like the closet door couldn’t have recently been opened, before withdrawing his hand back through the gap.  As he closed the gap more, the clothing settled.

He wasn’t even fully into his hiding place when the door to the bedroom opened.

Whoever had opened the door didn’t say anything.

“Stay.  It’s not worth running,” Danny mumbled.

Mia had a view of only a slice of the room, past coat hangers and through the gap in the door.

It was a man.  He wore a t-shirt and a gun holster that crossed his chest and another gun strapped to his thigh.  His hair was shaggy, his chin unshaven, and he had a cigarette in his mouth, unlit.

He raised his eyes for a second, looking out the window.  The window gave a view of the city, on fire.  The room was filled with the sound of Danny’s soft wheezing and the whine of the sirens.

She wondered what he thought about, as he looked.  For her, seeing the glimpse of things through the gap in the closet door and out the window, she imagined Tyr out there.  Countless youth like the little girl at the edge of the Civil Warrior attack.  How small that girl had felt in her arms.

Which made her think about Ripley.  Every second she had to wait made her resent this man, hate him.

Ripley was hurt and trapped and he was delaying her.

If something about him didn’t scare Mia, she would have stepped out of the closet to try to quietly handle him.

The man reached out, jostling Danny, and Danny jolted ‘awake’.  The jolt meant he moved in ways he shouldn’t, and he groaned, curling up, one hand at his side.  He hissed through his teeth, grunting intermittently.

“I heard voices,” the man said.

“Where?  Who?” Danny asked.

The man didn’t immediately respond.

Mia closed her eyes as his eyes roved in the direction of the closet door, scanning the room.  She didn’t want the whites of her eyes to stand out.  Besides that, she had to remain very, very still.

“Yours?” the man asked.

“Oh.  Scared me.  I thought we were being attacked.”

“Who would attack us?”

“The mayor?  I don’t know.”

“That would be stupid,” the man said, quiet, calm, a bit condescending.

“Give me a hand?  I have to piss,” Danny asked.

“No,” the man replied.

Danny, easing himself back up to a sitting position, gradually moved his legs around to the floor.  He sat there, audibly wheezing, hunched over, the man a few feet in front of him.

“What happened between you and your father is between you two.  Not my business.  I won’t help you or get in your way.  I heard talking, which is my business.”

“Okay.  Then can you get out of my way so I can piss?” Danny asked.  He put a hand on the nightstand, and struggled his way to his feet.  His shirt rode up, and even in the relative gloom, Mia could see the bruises at his side.

Danny stepped out of the room.  The man paused for a long second, then drew in a deep breath through his nose.  Then he took in another, mouth open, tongue slightly out.

Then he bent down, getting a tissue from a box by the bed, and blew his nose.  He stuffed the used tissue into a pocket, then left the room.

Danny was next door, in the bathroom on the other side of the closet, and his urination was audible, as were his grunts of pain.  He finished, the sound trickling off, then rinsed his hands.

After he finished, there were voices in the hall. Danny and someone else.  Not the same man as before.

“Shit, man.  You going to clean that?”

“…Yeah.”

“I think you should sit to take a whiz.”

“I’m not sure I could stand again,” Danny replied.  “How are they looking?”

“Not sure I should say.”

“Get to a hospital sometime?”

Whatever Danny said or whatever noise he made, Mia couldn’t make it out.  Maybe there was a gesture.

“Yeah.  Yeah.”

There was a pause, then two soft knocks on the door.

Mia and Carson emerged from the closet, easing their way out.  Danny stood in the hallway, his back to them, leaning hard against a door frame.  His gaze went through another open door, opposite his own.

By the looks of it, it was Valentina’s old room, from a past life.

Two bedrooms and the bathroom at the end of the hall, and the stairwell partway down its length.

Mia checked the coast was clear, then approached.  Carson went straight to the door.

“Two, eight, one, nine, nine, nine,” Danny murmured.  I don’t know about the door below.”

A glance into the bathroom filled in her mental image of the house.  It looked like Danny’s urine had sputtered more than it had streamed.  Most of the splash was crimson or pink tinted.  It was striking against the white of the porcelain and tile.

“The mayor’s son is with her, then there’s the kid, and her mom,” Danny whispered.

“Not her mom,” Mia whispered back.

Danny twisted around, very slowly, rolling his body against the door frame more than he turned.  He gave her a long look.

“You kidnapped the kid.  Right.”

“Rescued,” Mia whispered.  She met his gaze with her own, unwavering.

“Like we rescued Gio,” Carson said.

The boy stared at them with one good eye, his breaths wheezing.

“Before the lights come on,” was all Danny said, eyes dropping to the floor.  “You asked earlier.  I don’t know how he’ll find them.  But it’s all prepared.  The vents are an emergency exit, if we’re raided.  Not a great one, but…”

Which would mean there was a way to get the exterior vent covers open, and get from the vents to the outside.

“Is there a way to access the vents from this floor?”

“I don’t know.  I really don’t know.”

“Do you want us to take you with us?” Mia asked.  “You’d need to get your shoes on.  Be ready.  If you have strong painkillers to push through the pain, or anything…”

He was already shaking his head.  “I’m not sure I can run.”

Mia glanced at Carson.  “Carry him?”

Carson lifted up the side of his shirt.  The bandage was soaked through, and blood soaked his leg down past hip to the side of his knee.  He shook his head.

She rubbed at her shoulder, judging.  “I’m sorry.  It’s been a long night.  I normally would.  Do you want to try?  Running?”

He visibly wavered.

It was a hard decision to make.  If he said yes, there was a chance, but if he couldn’t keep up and he ended up caught, he would almost certainly get killed.  Or worse.  If he said no…

This was his life.  Until the next chance to get away.

“Decide before we come back this way,” Mia whispered.  She reached out, and brushed hair away from his face.  She cupped the side of his head with her hand.  “You’re a good brother.”

He flinched from the touch, and not because his face hurt.  Then he looked at her with a momentary disgust.  But that passed.  His expression crumpled, as much as that was possible with the swelling.

“I was shit.  I didn’t do anything.  Didn’t help.  I was always focused on other things.  My dad.  Earning my place.  As if she’d always be there, I could fix things later.  Until she decided to run.”

All his thoughts turned inward.

Mia’s thumb ran along bruised, possibly broken cheekbone.  “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve more than made up for it.  You’ve done good by her.”

“Yep,” Carson said.  “No doubt.”

A tear ran down Danny’s cheek.  He twisted his head to one side, expression changing at the clear pain that movement caused him, so the tear wasn’t visible.

“Gotta go,” Mia whispered, to Carson.  She stepped into the bathroom, and grabbed the soap dispenser with the pump nozzle, and put it in a back pocket.  Carson stepped into the stairwell, and gave the thumbs up.  It looked like the door had been propped open, while people were coming and going, bringing supplies through.

“The man you were talking to,” Carson whispered, glancing up at Danny, who stood in the open doorway above.

“He went down there.”

Mia paused to listen.  “Do you know who he is?”

“He was an analyst for the state department.  The guys were talking about it.  I don’t know if you know what that means, but-”

“We know,” Mia whispered.  It didn’t mean he was an analyst.  “And the two men in the woods?  The cousins?”

“They ran backgrounds and did sweeps for the safety of incoming diplomats.  People were speculating that’s also cover.  For what they actually did.”

“And the people in the computer room?” Mia guessed.

“I don’t know.  I overhear from cousins and people I know.  With those others, it’s not a huge secret. Almost a point of pride.  But people in the computer room?  I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“Good man,” Carson said, touching the boy’s shoulder.

The door opened.  He held it for Mia, then eased it closed.

The basement wasn’t as dark as it could have been.  It was huge, in a way the house didn’t feel huge because the walls and furniture made things feel smaller and more constrained.  Down here, same footprint, mostly, none of that, it was more like an open warehouse with a ceiling Mia could reach by putting her hand up and jumping.  Shelves lined some of the walls, but the way so many shelves were out there but failed to cover much of the floor made it all feel bigger.

There were people inside.  A group had flashlights, but they were on the far side of many layers of plastic sheeting.  It wasn’t thin sheeting, but closer to something industrial, that wouldn’t blow around with wind at a construction site.  The more distant point where the trophies were was probably where the light was brightest.  It was hard to look at, even with the plastic sheeting making it diffuse.

And over this way… chains and chairs.

A plastic cooler, sitting on a chair, with the lid removed.

Mia approached, heart pounding.  The sound of the tornado sirens had taken on a different texture, filtered in through ducts.  Like it was the world that was groaning, muted, reverberating through everything solid.

The water was barely cold.  The arm had visible lividity, and had gone past pruning to faint bloating.  Well past the point of being able to be reattached.  Mia’s fingers interlocked with the fingers of the very small hand.

Horror welled inside her.  Tension crept up her neck and shoulders.  It felt like the sirens were coming from the core of her, a tearing, yearning sound, bigger than her body could hold.

Was there any possible way to kill enough of them to make up for this?  Every single person that had looked past this?  Every soldier that decided their fear of Davie Cavalcanti was worth letting this happen?

Tears fell freely down her cheeks.

“Okay,” Carson murmured.

She looked over at him.

The fleeting expression on his face was one she’d only seen a few times.  When he himself was hurt.  When she’d first met him, getting Tyr.

Anger and anxiety are fuel.  Use them.

Use what you have.

The basement had no walls that she could see, like Valentina had described it.  Ducts ran through the ceiling.  Mia stared up at it.

She had to find a way.  To find Ripley, who was trying not to be found.  To deal with the threats.

Analyst for the state department.  This was a whole realm of the underworld that they hadn’t delved into, had only heard about and occasionally touched on.  One man they’d tried to disappear had been chased down by someone with a similar title.  Federal, not state.  The analyst had found him before Mia and Carson had gotten him out.

She and Carson had unraveled it later.  Analyst for the state department, or some federal department, or, to a lesser degree, diplomatic security… they were job titles people could hold that could be a face in the crowd, uninteresting enough nobody would really ask many questions about their work, but they wouldn’t be surprising if they popped up here or there.

The government had a way of spinning up special agencies as emergency counter-terrorism, officially unofficial departments that kept corrupt government departments in line, off-the-books elite agents and teams that were enough steps removed that even the next closest off the books team could keep its hands clean.  They popped up, teams were set up to monitor the other rogue and off-the-books teams, some changed sides, and some were left in place by an outgoing government or subfaction that hoped to get back into power again soon.

Sometimes, with stuff like the bioweapon in New York, it was these guys.  Keeping an eye on the right channels and acting.  Sometimes it was them perpetrating the deeds.  A rogue agency of overly capable people left without oversight, with contacts to call in, sometimes with resources or privileges, gone too rogue.

Mia doubted that even an incoming president would know the entirety of how things were organized, after the way things had gone in the last sixty years.  The only way they could know most of it would be to resurrect a group or set up a new one of their own to investigate, manage, or hunt down the dead branches.  Compounding the problem.

All creating a webwork of people who each, if someone like Mia were to follow the threads available, had digital trails leading to something that signaled, heavily, that this was classified or deliberately obfuscated.  That they shouldn’t get involved.

So she hadn’t gotten involved.  And they, she hoped, had no reason to know or follow up on the fact she existed.

One was now here in the dark.  Two more were in the woods.

There were other people down in the basement, pacing around.  Lights were shone into the areas where a duct had slats for air to flow down and through.

Ripley should be up in one of those ducts.

She wished she could look up and see Ripley peering down.  Just to know.

“How’s it going?”

“All the alerts are going off for fire and shit.  And they’ve got us combing the woods.  After all those TV reports about how fast the fire can move with wind like this?”

It was Danny, up near the top of the stairs.  Talking to someone else.  Giving them a heads up.

Mia kept her focus on the house.  There was minimal light out this far, but she could see the shapes of the ducts, and she could see the PVC pipe where all the cables ran through.

She moved, silent and steady, tracing the line of that pipe.  Away from the stairs.  Away from the light.  Away from the men that had passed Danny by.

Those men went straight for the light.  To the trophies that needed life support.

Mia startled.  There was a man, standing by the wall, headphones on.  A normal Cavalcanti soldier.  He was visible only when she approached, and the contrast of the light coming from the side against the profile of his body, and the darkness on the other side of him became clear.

He’d straightened, slightly.

He saw her too.  Just barely.

The difference was, for him, there was a huge chance that anyone he ran into in the darkness was a friend.  A small chance it was Ripley or Natalie, or the Mayor’s son, who were presumably supposed to be kept alive.  A minuscule chance it was a threat.

She stepped forward, then, as he started to speak, lunged, jabbing for his throat.  Left hand, because it was stronger than her right, with her shoulder torn.  The man knew how to fight.  He knocked the punch aside.

He started to yell, but Mia was anticipating it.  She pressed in, throwing her weight forward, crushing his arm against his upper chest and face.  The yell had come out like a yelp, cut short by the pressure.

With his free arm, he punched her, twice.  Once in the ear, which stunned her a bit.  She pulled her head back-

Ripley needs me.

-and another punch caught her in the side of the face.  She drove her forehead into his face, and he turned his head aside, avoiding the worst of it.  Mia realized she’d momentarily lost all sense of balance and was tilting sharply left, and grabbed onto him, fingers on jacket and shirt, hauling on him to either pull him over with her or pull herself back upright before she could fall.

Then he fell.

With two hands, he tried to staunch the flow of blood from the knife in his neck.  Some of the spray had caught Mia in the face.

Carson pulled the knife out.

The man, gurgling, tried to scream, and Mia covered his mouth with one hand, which only half-worked.

“Sorry,” she whispered, checking over her shoulder.  That hadn’t been efficient or elegant.

Carson held a finger to his lips.

The people Danny had just been talking to were coming down the stairs.  Mia pressed her body against the side of a shelf that was against the wall, her shoulder throbbing from the exertion just now.

Two people had flashlights and lit the way.  Two more were bringing boxes- it looked like the sort of metal box of first aid supplies that would be in a vehicle, with a hard plastic tote of water sitting on top.  They were focused on the job, and on not spilling the water.

Mia suspected the layers of security gave them the illusion that they were safe.  That the greatest danger was Davie.

With Carson’s help, she dragged the body, shirt and jacket hiked up around head and neck wound to catch as much of the blood as possible.  Her eyes were on the ceiling, and on the way ahead, in case someone else was standing guard in the dark.

Carson collapsed.  Mia jerked, as the body she was pulling suddenly had a lot more drag, and the jerk made her shoulder explode in pain.  In her momentary bewilderment and pain, she immediately focused on Carson, tufts of his hair between her fingers as she pushed hair back to get a clearer look at his face.  He was on hands and knees on the ground, pain clear on his face.

“Your side?” she asked.

“That bullet took a chunk out of me.”

“Can you keep going?”

“One second.”

She nodded.

“What are you thinking?” Carson asked, whispering, one of his hands lying over hers, at the side of his head.  “What’s our plan?”

“That this might be leading somewhere.  Cable, internet, other lines,” she replied, indicating the PVC pipe with wires running through it.  “Living room is there, kitchen’s there, the second entertainment room would be way over that direction.”

“Secret room, way to get out?”

“More like fuse box,” she replied.  “By process of elimination…”

She pointed.

“Okay.  Let’s go.  Let’s find a spot to put him.  Can’t do this much longer.”

They reached a cluster of shelves that Mia felt okay leaving the body in, placing two boxes to obscure the view.  There was some blood on the ground, but that was unavoidable.  Blood was tricky like that.

“I was thinking,” she whispered, eyes back on the ceiling.  “If there are sensors or traps, they’d need power.  But there’s no gaps or anything in the PVC, feeding out.  No wires I can see.”

“No,” Carson agreed.

It was a grim thought.

A trap or sensor was easier to work around, if they could spot it.

“I can’t help but think… what if they got her?” Carson asked.

“Who?”

“Ben and Rider.”

Mia gave him a long look.

“If she got out, somehow, and they found her, then they led us to believe we had to get in here ourselves… knowing we might not make it out?  Or we’d lose time?”

Mia shook her head.  “Even if there was a fifty percent chance that was true… we’d be here, checking.  Because we can’t afford to leave her here.”

“Not wrong.”

“And it’s not a fifty percent chance.  I don’t think they could’ve gotten out like this.”

“Okay.”

She’d told Ben what would happen if he played games.

They followed the connection to what she’d hoped would be a fuse box.  It wasn’t.

Just a hole in the wall.  Leading to the outside.  It was an imperfect hole, which seemed weird, considering the quality of the construction, otherwise, just barely wide enough for the PVC pipe and a bit of light to shine through.

There wasn’t anything outside that should lead to that.  Her first thought was that it could maybe be the connection to the vent cover.  If Danny was right, and the vents were built to also be an escape route in case of a raid or attack on Davie’s house, there’d have to be a way to unbar the way.  But there wouldn’t be one near here.  No vent covers.

No… extending her mental map out further…

That would be the station.

“This feeds into the early warning station Tony Arcuri told us about,” she murmured.

“Can we use it?”

She shook her head.

So much wasted time.

Her anxiety ramped up.  Images of Ripley’s fate darted through her mind.  Of Tyr, being upset his parent were gone.  Valentina not having anyone.

No.  There had to be ways.

“We have to find her,” Carson said, barely whispering anymore, in how stern he sounded.  “In the ducts?  But Davie’s men are doing the same thing.  Can we signal her?”

“This way.”

“Do you have an idea?”

She didn’t.

She still had the same idea from before.  But now it became that much riskier.

Because the other lines she wanted to trace went toward the light.  Where people were.

She wiped at her face, aware that could make the difference.

They hugged the wall, moving past the chairs and cooler again, then toward the plastic sheeting.  There were more shelves near the wall, which the sheeting lay across.  Getting between those shelves and the sheeting meant that if the light happened to shine on them, they’d be visible, as blotches of color and movement, only a bit blurry on the one side of the sheeting.

Mia’s eyes scanned the contents of the shelves.  Several had locked panes of plexiglass, keeping the contents within safe.

Some folded piles of clothing.

Tapes.

She could guess that it had something to do with the taking of the trophies.

“Stop pulling away!” a man shouted.  “Hold his head.  Are there any neck braces, to restrict movement of the head?”

Flashlights moved.  People moved.  The play of light and shadow against the curtains shifted.

Mia drew back as much as she could.  She let Carson watch for trouble, her eyes on the ceiling.

“Intubated.  Squeeze.  Don’t stop.  Trade off if you have to.”

“This is fucked.”

“You will be fucked if you don’t listen.”

“The hill’s on fire.  The sirens are going, they were talking about this place going up in flames.”

“It’s a ploy.  There’s someone further up the hill, they don’t see the fire, the wind favors us.”

“This is fucked.”

“If you can’t do the job,” a man said, and it was the same man who’d talked to Danny.  The analyst.  “Get out of the way, let someone else handle it.  I’ll let the boss know you couldn’t.”

“Do you want to?  Standing the fuck around, not doing anything.”

The anxiety in voices made Mia’s own anxiety stir.  Ripley needed help as much or more than these people did.  There was a boy who needed help.

Her eyes spotted the shapes of ducts… she didn’t believe Ripley would be up there, this close to where there’d be so much attention.  The smallest sound would draw everyone’s eyes and ears to her.

And the wires, the PVC pipe…

Mia edged closer to the open doorway, around a rolling set of drawers with a ‘sharps’ disposal container on top.  The open door itself was actually a shutter, and led to a tiled space which was presumably the operating theater and where all the medical supplies were.  There were people doing more serious work within.

She flinched as someone emerged about three feet in front of her.  Two people pushed a rolling cart between a corridor defined by multiple sheets of the plastic on either side.  Past two more curtains of sheeting that were separated by a few feet each, and into that central area where all the lights, the soldiers, the analyst, and at least one of the doctors were.

She made her best judgment and ducked across that ‘corridor’ to the far side.  Toward the far corner of the house.

There were some shelves and two more rolling cabinets.  Mostly medical stuff.  Some reference books.  Some tech.

There was a cot, presumably so a doctor on shift could catch a nap.

And then there was the fuse box.  There it was.

The other corner had the ventilation system and the sabotaged generator, which had two people working on rebuilding it.

Mia’s eyes went back to the shelf with the texts.

Under the bookshelf.

Had she been thinking about books?

There weren’t many options for ventilation access near here..

Mia checked Carson was still with her, and then traced a careful route around the perimeter, where the shadows were deepest.  Past the sheeting, someone lifted up an armless, legless torso and carried it through the corridor into the tiled room.

A space this big needed a big machine to bring the air through.  A duct ran up from the machine and into that network of ducts that fed into the rest of the house.  Presumably, the vents that fed to the outside helped bring in more.

Mia took cover behind the machine.  It was quiet, but the sirens outside did transmit some sound into the ducts, and she could hear some of that.

She ran her hand along the point where the duct met the machine.  Screws rattled.

With fingernails, she picked up a screw head.  No screw.  It had been snipped off, and naturally rested in the recess.  One had fallen to the ground, she noticed, now.

She met Carson’s eyes, then lifted the end of the duct away from the machine, so it pointed down into empty space.

And the toe of one of Ripley’s old-fashioned shoes poked down, and was guided to a toehold by Carson’s hand.

There was one faint metal bang, as a toe kicked the side of the unit too hard.

Everyone else was too preoccupied.

Ripley climbed out, shivering, almost flinching away, and then recognized Carson, first.  Then Mia.

Mia touched fingers to Ripley’s lips, making sure she knew to be quiet, then accepted the fierce, one-armed hug from her daughter.  She answered with a hug of her own, two-armed, tight, even though it made the damage at her shoulder scream.

Ripley pulled away, and hugged her dad, just as hard, but a little more abbreviated, before sitting back.  There was a wide-eyed wildness to her, a fear, that Mia hadn’t ever seen, that broke Mia’s heart.

Ripley reached up into the duct.

The boy climbed out too.  Mia used her hand to block his toes from banging the metal, and helped him find footholds.  Ripley clung to one side of her, tight, scared.

Until the boy was with them.

“Let’s go.” Mia whispered.  Even though she wasn’t sure what route would even work.  They’d have to cut across the plastic sheeting again, which was a risk, or move close to the-

“No.”

Mia looked at her daughter.

“Not without Natalie.”

Concern crossed Mia’s expression.  It only deepened when she followed Ripley’s gaze.

The shelves with the books and medical stuff.

A vent above those.  Mia had wondered if Ripley might be there.

“I’m not sure she can get out without help.  It was hard enough getting in,” Ripley whispered.

The metal would pop and bang as weight shifted.

Climbing down would be slow.

To save Natalie Teale?

More people had come into the ‘tent’ of plastic sheeting.

She wondered if they’d found the blood.

“Mia,” Carson whispered.

She tensed, worrying he’d heard something she hadn’t.

But his eyes were on the ceiling.

The PVC pipe.  There still weren’t any detours.  No power feeding into sensors, that she could see.  Some feeding to the outdoor cages, but she doubted her ability to pop those open and she knew they were guarded, anyway.  It would alert the Cavalcanti family.

No.  If there was no sensor or anything like that, but Davie was confident he could find Natalie, Ripley, and the boy… it was a tracker.

Her plan had been to sabotage the fuse box, and gain some control over when the power came back on.  There were other traps she could think of.  She had the soap, as dumb as it was.  But now she knew, they wanted the power on.

“We have to handle it,” he whispered.

The analyst stepped out of the curtain, with a few soldiers, and was briefly illuminated, before the curtains fell back into place, stiff and slow, and obscured some of that light.

He was having them stand guard by the door or the stairs.  It was really the only way out.  Someone had seen the blood.

So they needed the fuse box or generator working, and they needed the tracker.  Maybe those things together could buy them a window, draw attention.  That was the one option that came to mind.

Except there was only one real place the tracker could be.  The absolute bastard.

“We have to save her,” Ripley whispered.  As if that was the one and only consideration in play.

Piling the impossible onto the improbable.

Ripley’s expression, barely visible, as the four of them hunkered behind the ventilation unit, was changing by slow fractions.  It was an expression that had been in Mia’s nightmares, tied to that green Ion with a missing ‘n’.

Mia hugged her daughter, so she didn’t have to see the expression, or know that, on some level, Ripley didn’t see her as her mom anymore.  Not in full.

“Okay,” she whispered back, meeting Carson’s eyes, unsure if she was lying to her daughter.

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Carson raised the camera to his eye.  Then he pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath.  The wind stirred his hair- he was sitting in the car, car door open, one foot on the ground.  The other cars were parked nearby.

“Drones?” Mia asked him.  She didn’t look up from the computer.  She was poring through images.  She’d tagged the images already, and was browsing through specific tags.

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

Carson was pretty sure the camera worked by identifying lenses and reflective surfaces, everything cast in a grainy black and white, with the features in question a glaring white or light gray with lens flares around them.

He opened his mouth, watching, then closed it.  Things were in a delicate place.  Mia was.  Their support was.

There were more drones than he could count, flying in patterns.

“Fuck me,” Moses said, before Carson could figure out how to word it.  Moses had a second camera, with a slightly cracked screen, and an internal battery that was only connecting if it was held at a certain angle.  Moses had his head cocked a bit to the side as a consequence.  “That’s a lot.”

Mia’s knuckles cracked as she clenched her fist.  She’d looked up, staring out the windshield.  The sky was black, mostly, but the illumination of the fires throughout the city made up for the fact the power had died again, plunging them into another blackout, making the stars impossible to see.  They didn’t quite reach the point of making the drones visible against the night sky.

Mia stopped cracking her knuckles and rubbed at her right shoulder, working the fingers of the right hand, open and closed.

“That bad?” Carson asked, quietly.

“You tell me.  What are you seeing?”

“Drone-wise?  He escalated.  Full coverage.”

“You guys hurt him on that front, he bounced back twice as hard,” Valentina said.  Valentina, for her part, was sketching on paper, using the lid of a closed laptop as a surface, in the back seat.

“We hurt him,” Mia said, using a finger to loop Valentina into that ‘we’.  “You’re a part of the family, you’ve been contributing, you get some of the credit.  If he’s expanded, he might have had to get more people to manage, build, and repair the drones.  I wasn’t able to find much when I researched.”

“For the record, I was asking about your shoulder.”

“I know.  But there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Ice, bandage?” Carson offered.

“Another hour won’t make a huge difference.  I want to get this done.  Ripley can’t afford for us to wait.”

Her eyes turned to the house.

Their logic for approaching Davie Cavalcanti’s home shared a lot of logic with how they had set up the cameras around the cabin, because the man had borrowed from their logic and approach, intentionally or accidentally.  There was one major road that led up the side of the hill overlooking the city, forking here and there into long driveways that led up to the individual properties, each far enough apart from the others to have total privacy.  Davie’s home was one of five with prime position, jutting out from the hillside.

That major road was under constant surveillance from the drones.

From there, other roads and chokepoints were under constant monitoring.  It was like the trail cameras, but fluid and much more oppressive.

Then there was the activity on the road.  People kept coming and going.  There were others stationed near the key intersections.  To top it off, the police were active again.  A helicopter had passed overhead while they were driving in.

They had stopped far enough away that they were out of the thick of it and away from scrutiny, but close enough they had a view of the approach.

While working for the Cavalcantis, Tony Arcuri, the family lawyer, had checked all purchases over a certain amount, for taxes and because the government flagged large transactions.  He’d explained on the way over.  Here, they had a house on the hill, surrounded by trees, just outside the city.  Except forest fires had been an annual problem for years now.  So had intermittent and severe blackouts, the occasional one knocking out all communication.

Other early warning systems for disaster were managed by the city, and this wasn’t he first week the city’s leadership had been in a bad place.

There were many things wrong with Davie, but he wasn’t an idiot.  So he’d had small cabins built, with connections to the various firewatch towers and the house.  Underground telegraph wires, apparently.   Davie had coordinated with the city.  They had set up some of the infrastructure, he’d supplied material, men, and ran it.  In a way, it gave him more control.  He could have members of his gang there, ready to deploy onto that main road that led up to the house, cutting off retreat.  The other outpost was a little less useful for that, but Mia had looked at satellite photos and they weren’t ruling out the possibility that a helicopter could land nearby.  A place to escape to, with supplies and people stationed there as backup.

The house faced southwest.  There was one station at the north side of the hill, with the possible landing pad.  One at the east, near the base of the road.  Firewatch towers further away were connected to his setup.

“This will have to do,” Valentina said.  “Not to scale.”

She passed the paper forward.

Mia took a picture of it with her phone.  “Where’s the cable, phone to USB?”

Carson checked the bag of wires, then shook his head.

“We’re disorganized,” Mia said.  “Moving too fast because we have to move fast, not putting everything away.  Not getting everything in place.”

“Yeah,” Carson replied, rummaging.  He saw what might be the wire beneath the center console, between the seats.  He reached for it, then hissed.  That bullet wound at his side.  “And-”

He had to huff for a breath.

“You alright?” Moses asked.

“-worse for wear,” Carson said, finishing his sentence, and answering the question at the same time.

“Did you tear your stitches?” Mia asked.

“Didn’t feel like I did.”

Valentina squirmed around until she could reach beneath.  She fished out the wire so Carson didn’t have to..

“Thank you,” Mia said.  “You’ve been stellar.  I don’t know how we could make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to,” Valentina said, seeming a little startled.

“I think this is as close as we can get,” Carson said, while Mia snapped a picture.

“Okay,” Mia said.  She opened her car door, wincing at the use of her arm.  “Valentina, could you grab a spare laptop battery? I’ll switch.  Everyone gather.  Fast.”

The group came over.  Ben had his camera out.  Rider stood behind him.

“This,” Mia said, clicking to one tab.  “Is the hill.  Houses marked out on it.  Approximate locations of the warning stations here and here.”

She switched tabs.  It was a picture of the house, sketched out, with pictures superimposed over sections of it.

“This is the house, drawn by Valentina, who lived there.”

“Not to scale,” Valentina said.

“With these pictures…” Mia clicked on one.  It opened as a separate window.  An outdoor picture of a woman in fancy dress and a man in a suit, both a bit red faced, smiling.  There was activity in the house, visible from the window, and there were lots of people around.

Mia zoomed in.

“Ripley is in the vents.  Presumably Natalie Teale is too.  Here we see where the vent exits to the outside, for airflow, near the base of the house.  It’s caged.  Presumably she escaped and got to the vents, but can’t exit them.  She left a message for us, using a phone of one of Davie’s doctors, and as soon as the power came back on and communication was restored, it was sent.  Letting us know.”

The power was back out again.  Still no cell service.

“From the lighting, the generator was killed.  From the photos, presumably taken by Natalie, given the height they were taken from, the collection of armless, legless trophies was effectively taken off life support.  So Davie’s distracted.  I want to distract him more.”

“Okay,” Ben said, frowning.

She went on, explaining, “From the way the drones are set up, and the people are patrolling, I’d guess Davie has some sense she didn’t actually escape.  He might even know they’re in the vents.  Other exits here…”

Another picture, from the back of the house.

“Here…”

Side of the house, near the garage, which ran beneath the house itself, where it jutted out from the hill.

“And here.”

“That’s a lot,” Carson noted.

“Big house,” Valentina said.

“I’m open to suggestions, but I think our best option is to get to the early warning station.  If we can, we can warn about fire from the city.  Gale-force winds fanning the flames and putting that region at risk of forest fire, with no flight or road travel.”

“Force an evacuation,” Carson said.

“The setup of the roads there are an issue.  Cutting through the woods is slow.  Going down the road is dangerous- if a fire reaches the foot of that road, cars can’t easily get out,” Tony explained.  “There’s a dirt road the city uses to get access to the woodland, but that’s slow going for multiple cars.  Which is why he wanted the early warning.”

“Ideal world, he decides to leave Ripley behind,” Mia said.

“And if we can’t?” Ben asked.  “If it’s too well guarded?”

“We use the signal jamming device we got from the anarchists, stop the drones.  The team that couldn’t get to the warning station baits them in their direction.  The device itself will draw some attention if Davie’s people can work out where it is,” Mia replied.

“If they have the right equipment, they can judge the strength of the jamming signal and its direction.  If there is more than one drone controller, and they’re at or can go to different locations, they could work it out in a few minutes,” Carson elaborated.

“Our people would leave a signal jammer hidden, so they can move further, faster, going in or retreating.  It should work for a range of one mile.  That covers the hill, the house, drones won’t receive any new inputs.  With two teams, the other one should be more clear to get in.  Closer to the house.  Bait them out of position with one, get the other in where we need them.”

“Hmm,” Rider mused.  “I’d worry on a few fronts, there, based on what little I know.”

“Okay,” Mia said.  “Elaborate?”

“We’d need teams for the bait plan.  Some of us would be going out there,”  Rider stated.

“We would.”

“Whoever went and started things off, they’d recognize the signal is being blocked.  Depending on how they’re set up, they might realize what direction that’s coming from.  There would be cars cutting off escape routes.  More.  Even if we could get close enough.”

“True, but his attention is divided,” Ben said.  “Ripley in the vents.  His trophies are dying.  Valentina said he cares about those.”

“Yeah,” Valentina said.  “More than he cares about his own children.”

“Drones shut down, possible attempt at rescuing Ripley?  What else?” Rider asked.

Mia frowned.  “I’m hoping it’s enough he’s distracted.  His forces will be split up.  Are already split up, if we count the ones defending against the targeted attacks from the Civil Warriors.  Your ploy.”

“They are,” Tony said.  “Split up, frustrated.  He maintains an aura of confidence.  It reassures people at the top, but those at the bottom don’t have an idea of what’s going on.  Only a few people in the leadership are good at communicating with them.  Andre was one.”

Andre was in the back of one car with Addi.  Much worse for wear after Mia and Carson had questioned him, at Tony’s office.

“Can we use Andre?” Ben asked.

“He won’t cooperate.”

“Okay,” Ben said.  “I’m wondering how we can fork their attention even more.  If we’re trying to get them to think there’s a danger of fire, what other warnings work?  Warning sirens?”

“Individually activated from places around the city,” Mia said.  “They operate using batteries.”

“You looked it up already?” Ben asked.

Mia nodded.

“Okay, um,” he said, apparently caught off guard by that.

She didn’t say it, but they had looked it up when Ben, Rider, and Natalie had been at the school with Ripley, and they’d been contemplating ways to get them out.  They’d decided the siren would generate enough chaos they weren’t sure they could intercept Ben’s group.  A bomb worked better, to get people running in predictable directions.

“If we send people for that, we have less for going for the warning station, or the house,” Carson noted.

“Less chance of being spotted,” Ben said.

“Less chance of success.  Less skills.”

“No, Ben’s putting his finger on things that are worrying me,” Mia said.  “Kids?  Split up, break in and activate the tornado sirens.  You’ll have to break in.  I can get what you need onto your phones.  Are you charged?”

“Charged enough,” Jermaine said.

“Don’t hurt anyone,” Ben said.

Jermaine smiled.

Mia told them, “That’ll be your last job for us.  I have your contact information.  Leave the state, wait for an email, rendezvous.  The latter half of your pay will reach you automatically.”

“Unless you pull something,” Carson said.

“Why would we?” Kenny asked, shrugging.  “It’s a chance to fuck the Cavalcanti family, right?  Get them running scared, confused?  Love that.”

Rosales smiled a bit.

“Great,” Carson said, letting posture and tone carry what the word itself couldn’t.  That lingering warning to not get clever or pull some trick.

He looked at the hill, and heard a helicopter.

All of them shifted position, while the chopper passed.  It wasn’t close and there was no indication it was focused on them, but one mistake could cost them everything.  Carson had ducked into the car, and felt his side ache.

There were police cars on the road too.

After it had passed, Carson climbed back out.

“We have two jammers.  Each reach a mile.  We have to get one to the base of the hill to shut down the drones that are operating from the house, minimum, right?” Carson asked.

“A little closer than the base of the hill,” Mia replied.

“What if we deliver them a package with one jammer inside?”

“That won’t last long before being destroyed, and it shows our hand.  They’ll intercept it,” Rider said.

“It won’t, it does, they will,” Carson said.  “So we have someone unwitting deliver it.”

“Elaborate?” Ben asked.

“No.  The more compartmentalized we keep information, the better,” Carson said.  “It’ll double as a feint.  Draw more attention away.  Fork their attention, as you put it, splitting it like branches of lightning.”

Ben was frowning.  “There’s another issue.”

“Just say it, don’t drag this out,” Mia told him.

“The vents.  Assuming Ripley and Natalie aren’t conveniently at the spot we arrive at, someone has to go inside.”

Mia glanced at Carson.

Mia was five foot ten, but broad shouldered, muscular.  The same thing that let her push herself with little mind to the damage she was doing to herself let her work out to an insane degree, which she did, to cope with anxiety, doubling as a way of preparing herself if a bad day eventually came.  Which it had.  She had to be careful, and she hadn’t, earlier tonight, because that same fact meant she could miss her body’s warnings and injure herself.

Carson was over six feet tall, and while he wasn’t broadly built, he wasn’t slender either.

“Can you set up the feint, if it comes to that?” Ben asked.  “You draw attention, and Rider and I go to the house?  I’m short, I’m small enough.  Rider and I are… not strangers to hostile territory.  We did exercises.”

Mia was already shaking her head, pausing to form an argument.  “Rider has, but you haven’t for a long time.”

“Okay.  We’ll intercept you on your way out,” Carson said.

Mia turned, frowning.

“The longer we argue, the more time we waste.  Okay.  You think you can get close?”

“I think we can.  Send me everything you have?” Ben asked.  “Maps?  Pictures?”

“Can’t send, but I can transfer.  I have a cable,” Mia said.

Ben bent through the open door to grab that cable.  His side hurt.

He passed it to Mia.

“No viruses on my phone.  No tricks.”

Mia gave the man one of the most dispassionate sidelong looks Carson had seen out of her.

“I can’t shake this notion you’re going to get us to be one branch of the feint, then let them hurt us,” Rider said.  “Then you sweep in and rescue Ripley, leaving Natalie behind to die.  Ride off into the darkness.”

Carson folded his arms.  “Do you want to split up?  Mia with Rider, me with you?”

“Honestly?” Ben asked.  “I think I’d find out Rider didn’t make it, and I know I don’t have that killer instinct to kill Carson to even the score.  It’s not even.”

“I can hold my own,” Rider said, glancing at Mia.

“While she’s calling the shots?  In control of the situation?  And while you’re distracted?” Ben asked.

“I can,” Rider said, but his tone of voice had changed.  He gave Mia a more serious look.

“I can go,” Valentina said.

“No,” Ben said, at nearly the same time Carson said the same.  For very, very different reasons.

She frowned.

Mia had a dark look again.  Carson had seen it at the dinner table.  He’d seen it when she was smashing one man’s skull through another man’s skull.  He’d seen it the night he met her.

“Remove the password on your computer,” Carson said.

Mia glanced at him.

“All of our gathered information, on the Cavalcantis, everything else.  All of our funds.  We can’t leave without that.  They can take any and all bags from our car.  So long as they do it fast.  That’s our collateral.”

“You’d take Ripley and leave all the rest of it behind.”

“We could but we couldn’t do it and survive.  We do our best.  You get Natalie and Ripley, we’ll meet you on the way out.  Then we talk.”

Ben clenched his jaw, taking in a deep breath.

“They’re not worth it,” Mia said.

“I actually believe them, that they could get past anyone that lingers after the evacuation.  And the can fit into vents like these in the picture.”

A look of disgust and anger crossed Mia’s face.  She hit the key combination to bring up settings, then changed the settings.  She threw the computer at Ben.  He caught it awkwardly, his camera already in one hand.

“I’ve worked with enough people to know they’d have backups,” Rider said.

“These are the backups.  Davie took everything we had.”

“And backups of backups?”

Mia whirled on Ben, that darkness and muted rage clear in her eyes.  Carson raised a hand, and he realized he’d be more likely to lose the use of his hand than stop her.

She was going to kill one of them, now.  Carson leaned back against the car.

“Ben,” Valentina said.

The man looked at her.  Mia had stopped.

“I’ll make sure.  Take the collateral.  I think Ripley should have a real choice.”

Carson studied Valentina’s posture and expression.

Ben and Rider didn’t know her enough to trust her.  She was a wild card, who’d hurt Addi.  But for Carson… he knew that if she left with them, she wouldn’t come back.  They’d given her validation, recognized her accomplishment.  He wasn’t sure if that had unlocked something in her, a milestone she’d needed to cross, that, once crossed, gave her permission to go, or if she had realized she didn’t want them in the time they’d been separate, focused on other things.

“Okay,” Ben said.

Mia put out a hand, “Phone.”

Rider gave his over.

Carson opened the trunk of the car, and got one of the bags with the military-strength signal jammer in it.  Rider already had a drone camera from earlier.  What else?

Didn’t matter.  He walked over and put the bag at Rider’s feet.

Mia quickly loaded up the necessary maps and information.  An overhead view of what was going on here.  “If you cross us, play games, or use that laptop against us, against the spirit of this deal, I will make you wish Davie Cavalcanti had you in his basement.  She’s my daughter.”

“And we may disagree on that point of fact until we’re blue in the face,” Ben said.  He took his phone.  “Don’t screw us.”

“If we do, we run the risk of Davie getting the information you have.” Carson replied.  “So don’t get caught.  He gets that, he wins.”

“Order of operations: get to the warning station.  Give a warning about imminent fire.  The stations are staffed by Cavalcanti gang members, not trained professionals, so it should be relatively easy.  If we can’t get them to evacuate that way, or if the tornado sirens don’t push them to go, Carson and I will go, draw them out with one signal jammer.”

“We’ll bait them out,” Carson said.  “I might have a better way.”

Ben frowned.  “What are you up to?”

“I have a plan.  And if it comes to that, you won’t like it.  But it’s not because it risks you, or Ripley, or gives us an advantage over you.  I swear on the life of my children.  I’m not playing games.”

Ben frowned.

“If I told you, you’d kick up a fuss, and you’d be distracted,” Carson said.  “If I don’t tell you, you’ll make peace with it later.”

Wariness all around.

Carson flashed a smile at them.

“Warning station, try to get them to evacuate, then house.  Wait for our distraction,” Mia reiterated.

“Don’t get too close.  Better to take a minute than to get caught because you got spotted by their surveillance, even with the danger,” Carson said.  “Use the signal jammer as a last resort only.  Mind the drones, use the camera if you can.”

Rider already had the camera out.  He nodded.

Ben and Rider got into their car and drove.  One or both of them were watching Carson, Mia, and the others throughout, until they’d turned to leave the parking lot.

Mia’s forehead wrinkled as she looked at Carson.  “If you were thinking we had extra backups… we do, but we can’t get to them easily.  We’d have to dig out the bunker, on their turf, and it’s a place they already know.  And we need to leave after we get Ripley.”

Carson was reminded of the bullet wound in his side.  “I know.  It was a genuine offer.  Which is the only reason I think they accepted.  We need to move.”

“We do, are we cutting through the woods?”

“I have another way to get their attention.  But first… we need an eighteen wheeler,” Carson said, glancing at the tools and things at the back of the trunk, where the back of the back seat formed a wall.  Tape, a welder the size of a toaster.

⯁

His side was bleeding freely again.  He had torn his stitches, enough that his hip was soaked through.  It was a surprise to pull his phone out to check the map for the roads and find the screen smeared in his own blood.

They didn’t find an eighteen wheeler of the dimensions Carson wanted, but there was a moving van with a shutter at the back, battered from people’s attempts to break in and loot it.  Something or someone had scared them off.

Possibly the police he was seeing in the area.  Carson picked the lock and opened it, checked, then closed it.

It was a metal box with a truck to drive it.  He spot-welded it shut.  Enough it wouldn’t open with any real effort.

He’d had the idea.  Mia had contributed the-

What was he even meant to call it?

The D.I.Y. aspect.  She’d turned it from a concept to a project.

He walked around to the driver’s seat.

Mia was taping Andre Cavalcanti’s head to the headrest.  His hands were taped to the steering wheel.  The man snarled, struggling.  He’d already been beaten so bad that only one eye would open.

“The nice thing about dying by fire is the smoke,” Carson explained.  “It takes you out before you can burn to death.  However, in your current situation, the fire will burn around and beneath you.  Smoke won’t necessarily make it into the cabin before the heat does.”

Andre struggled.

Carson used the camera, checking drones.  It also helped to highlight cars on the unlit road.  It was hard to tell if they were patrolling or just being very careful when there were no streetlights, and some cars abandoned at the roadside, without lights or headlights.

“Your best bet, Andre, is to get close.  If you play games, you might end up stuck inside a truck that’s on fire, cooking alive before you pass out.  This far out?  If you struggle, break our setup so the truck comes to a natural stop?  I wouldn’t trust anyone out here to save your hide.  It’s every man for themselves.  Closer to the house, people recognize you.  They might even have a fire extinguisher.”

Andre pulled at the steering wheel, throwing his entire body weight into the struggle.

“Tell them we have the Arcuri family, and we want a trade.”

Andre’s mouth was covered in duct tape, so he couldn’t really talk.

“Tell him our daughter’s out and safe, he loses.  This?  You burning?  It’s a final fuck you from us to him.  We’ll hold one of the Arcuris for a year, release one, then release the other later.  So long as he behaves and doesn’t follow us.”

Andre hadn’t been around for Tony’s defection.  He hadn’t been in a position to see or hear those conversations.

And, Carson was hoping, there was a long shot Davie would believe they’d gotten Ripley out.

Fury was etched around Andre’s eyes.  Fear too.

Carson smiled.

“A word,” Mia said.

Carson nodded.

They walked far enough away from Andre that he couldn’t hear.

“It’s a good opening,” she said.  “But what happens after?”

“We’ll see how he moves.”

She nodded.  She pulled out a ream of tape, and got fresh bandage.  Padding at his side.  When she peeled old bandage away, it looked inflamed.

“Fuck,” he swore.

It was another four minutes until the sirens came on.  It wasn’t like the tornado siren he’d heard during the brief test a year ago.  Carson frowned.

“Different sirens for different disasters.  I told them how to set it,” Mia explained.

The sirens were loud, and echoed as the sound bounced against the hill.  A terrible yawning sound that put nerves on edge.

He watched the drones, to see if flight patterns changed.

And the drones stopped.

They didn’t.

There were no headlights of people getting into cars around the Cavalcanti house.

There wasn’t a bustle of activity… and there were enough people there for there to be activity.

“They’re not moving.”

The sirens weren’t enough.

Carson watched, hoping for some clue.

Of course the journalist and his marshal had fucked this up.

It was only a moment.  Maybe it was intended as something that could be a solar flare, or a blip in the system.

Out there, Ben and Rider had turned on their signal block, intended as a last resort, for only a second.

“They just turned on their device for a moment.  It’s a signal.  I think they can’t get through.  They might be intending for us to go.”

Mia stared at Carson.

He angled his head toward Andre.

“Okay,” she said.

And Carson strode over to the vehicle.

Andre grunted as Carson popped up beside him, reaching past him.

He moved the extendable microphone stand to wedge it between gas pedal and the base of the seat.  Andre’s full-body thrashing almost made him drop it.

“Three, two, one,” Mia said.

“Good luck,” Carson said, before shifting gears.

The vehicle lurched forward.  Carson rode with it a second, gave Andre a kiss on the side of the head, then hopped down, stumbling with the landing.

Andre raced forward, gas canisters strapped and dangling around the outer edge of the truck, and near the truck cabin.  Mia’s countdown was to coordinate Andre’s launch and the starting of the timer for her explosive.

“I wonder if something went wrong,” Mia said.  “They’re forfeiting a lot.  Letting us go for Ripley.”

“Or it’s a trick from two men who think they’re cleverer than they are,” Carson said.

They got into the car, Carson wincing at his side.

Andre was all gas, no brake.  The truck wasn’t that fast, but it picked up some speed.

Cop cars that had been stationed closer to the hill lit up.  They pulled out, moving.

And Carson started up their car and drove.  No lights.  He did turn the radio on, tuned to static.

They just had to get close enough to the woods.

The truck drew the attention of various Cavalcanti vehicles on standby.  As it got closer to the hill, Carson reached into the back seat, and switched on the jamming device.

The radio signal static audibly distorted.  The drones stopped in the air.

Let them think the jamming device is in that truck.

Two cars intercepted the truck.  One ran alongside it, left side of the cop car running alongside the right side of the truck, trying to steer it off the road.  When the second car got involved, front of the vehicle pushing at the back left tire, there was little Andre could do.

It steered hard left, and with the speed it was going, no brake, and the slight elevation shift of the road, leading toward the base of the hill, it toppled.

Mia held a remote up at eye level, firmly pressing a button.

It felt like the ongoing whine of the sirens stopped, for a moment.  But it didn’t, of course.  Too far away.  More that the air shifted as the moving truck with Andre inside became a sudden ball of liquid flame.  It crashed, landing on its side, driver’s side against the ground.  At a glance, from a distance- Carson sat up in his seat, twisting around.  It didn’t appear the crash had popped the back of the truck open.

Let them think the jammer was in there, to start with.  Let them go to the effort of putting out the fire, get the tools they need to break in, and find only the message.  Same as they’d given to Andre.  A final ‘fuck you’ as if they had Ripley and were on their way out.  A warning to stay away, or they’d kill the Arcuris.

The fire drew the attention of others.  Part of the burning gasoline had spread to the hood of one cop car, so it was harder for people to think they had it under control.

Carson drove the car into a strip of trees along the road.  They’d have to cross the road.

“Are you okay with the bag, to start with?” he asked.

“Yeah.  Left arm still works fine.”

“Go ahead.  I’ll catch up.”

She got out of the car, walked to the edge of the treeline, and then stopped, checking.

The road was two lanes, extending in a direction that would take cars out out of the city, trees on both sides of the road.  In the other direction, it led vehicles to that copse of amenities that served both the rich houses directly above that copse, and the people coming in from this road.  A mix of restaurants and higher end groceries, clothing stores, and such.

All lit by distant flames elsewhere in the city, cast in dull red.  Set to a soundtrack of the incessant whine of the sirens.

Both of them startled at the distant eruption of fire around Andre’s moving van.

Mia quickly turned the device off.

“Why?” Carson asked, as he checked his gun.

There was a smaller commotion as the police car backed up and Andre’s moving van settled, no longer able to lean on the car’s hood.  Mia switched the device back on.  “Giving them reasons to think it’s in there.  Best done while we aren’t moving.”

Carson nodded.

She had such a dark look in her eyes.  It was briefly illuminated by a car racing toward the scene, headlights bright.

“What are you thinking?” Carson asked.

“The children.  Not just ours.  Valentina-”

Valentina was hanging back.

“-Ripley, Tyr must be so scared and disoriented.”

“He’s resilient.”

“The girl that man brought to the riot.  Others.  How many children hear the sirens now?”

“I know.”

A second car passed.

Mia gave Carson a quick nod, paused as he reached, out and leaned in to kiss him.  Then she hurried across the road, carrying the heavy bag.

Carson watched, camera to one eye.  He could see the drones suspended in the sky.

And, further down the road, there was a flash of white on the camera as someone opened a car door and the light bounced off the glass.

Carson watched, then crossed the road, quickly and silently.

He ducked through the trees, and found himself wishing for the second time tonight that his frame was a little smaller, because there were plenty of branches in his way.

A young man was doing the same, while Mia had far less reason to be careful and quiet, and pushed past, stepping on branches, breaking them by walking straight through.  A woman with a mission.

The young man reached the trail that Mia was making as she walked through.  Every branch she broke was one he didn’t have to duck under.  He did have to watch his footing.

Carson pursued, in turn.

The young man had a gun belt, which included zip ties.   Not on duty but… that was a duty rig.  Cop.

Cementing what they’d suspected, seeing the police presence.  There’d been an outstanding possibility that the police presence was only there to protect the wealthier homes around the hill, but…

Davie had the police under his thumb, now.

Okay.

Carson worried.  Mia was too focused on what was in front of her.  She wasn’t even thinking about him enough to look back to see if he was indeed catching up.  The young officer was drawing closer…

As the young officer got close enough, Carson deemed it too dangerous.  Mia had slowed down to get past a thick grouping of branches, the young man pursued, ducking low, to catch her right past it-

Carson broke into a run.

The man couldn’t get up, past the branches, and draw his weapon in time.

Carson stabbed him several times.  In the heat and frenzy of the moment, he wasn’t sure of the count, or if the resistance of a branch against his wrist was leading him to think the blade had sunk in to its limit when it hadn’t.

One stab at the lower back, multiple around the point where buttocks met thigh.

The man fell forward.  Mia turned, startled, and then tossed the bag.  It landed on the hand with the gun.

Buying Carson time to ram his head and face past the branches that were in the way, getting fully on top of the guy.  Knee on the back wound, he wrestled the man’s arms behind his back.

“Fuck!” the man shouted.

“Don’t shout, now.  Don’t get clever.  Don’t make a commotion that makes problems for us,” Carson said.  “Because our solution to that is we end you.”

The man stopped.

“Got his arm?” Mia asked.

Carson nodded.

She moved the bag and took the gun.

“Now.  This can end with us slitting your throat and leaving you, or you can give us reason to stay long enough to staunch the bleeding, give you a chance,” Carson said.  “Answer fast.  What don’t we know?  What’s happening?”

The man shut his eyes, wincing from the pain.  His hands gripped his thighs, but bending to do that made his back bleed.

“Five, four…”

“It’s a favor to a friend of the chief.  Guard the property in bad times.  He pays.  We all go happy.  We deliver his enemies to him, alive or dead.  Didn’t think anything would happen- ugh.”

“Keep going.”

Carson took the duct tape from Mia, then wrapped it around the man’s middle.

“-then you showed.  We’re watching every way out of the city.  Said- ugh.”

“Said what?”

“That there’s evidence people- you, I guess, instigated the riots, bombed a school, set everything off.  If it’s true, you’re top of everyone’s list.  Feds, everyone.”

There were sounds of distant gunshots.

From the direction… Valentina.

“We should go,” Mia said.

Carson did a quick loop around the man’s thigh.  One leg was far worse than the other, which only had a seemingly shallow scratch that became a light stab wound where thigh met buttock.

“We might be nearby, or coming back.  No noise.  No shouting, no signals.  If we hear you, that’s it,” Carson said.

He didn’t figure the man would be making it far, with his injuries, anyway.

There were more gunshots.  This time, that would be Ben and Rider.

He could guess at direction.  The map was on the phone screen.

They walked up the hill.  Carson’s hand got tacky with resin as he grabbed trees to help haul himself up.

All the aches and pains of their efforts so far added up.  His knuckles, from throwing a punch.  His side.  His shoulders, his back.

But light shone through the trees.

It was bright, here, compared to further down the hill.  The red light of the fires didn’t reach, but the sound of the sirens did.

There was a crowd outside the house.  People stood around cars, presumably because the headlights were more illumination than there was inside, where the power was dead.

There, at one of the vents for air intake, a possible but unlikely exit point for Ripley, someone was standing on the roof of a car, shining a flashlight in.

At another, at the side of the building, the same was happening, except the man had a gun.

“…send some of the younger ones out.  Keep Ileana happy?  Kids out of the way of danger?”

“We leave as a group, or we don’t leave at all.  That’s the order.  I’m not going to be the one to defy it.”

“This is bullshit.”

There was a sound.  A sharp slap, maybe.  Or a punch.  A reaction.  If it wasn’t for the ongoing sound of the sirens, Carson would’ve been able to tell.

“Call this bullshit again, when the wrong person can hear you?  You’ll get worse.”

A man approached the treeline.  Carson nudged Mia, and the two of them moved away.  The man unzipped and, after finding his equipment, which seemed to be more of a struggle than it should be, began pissing into the trees.

At one side of the house, people were unloading computer equipment into the back of a Midas.  Some drone stuff.

Some men sat in a cluster around and on the stone furniture of a back porch area.  Three had water.  One older man had a beer and a cigarette.  One of the young men was jittery, knee bouncing up and down.

Not much conversation.

Moving around the perimeter of the house again.  There were other access points.

They had to wait for someone to stop smoking.

“…on fire,” a young woman said.  In a group of mostly men, she was a rarity.

“We know who it was?”

“Apparently Andre.  They’re talking about it now.”

An older man said, “Anita, get Liberato.  All of us stay together.  If it looks like we’ll be split up or given different jobs, let me know.”

“Something up?” ‘Anita’ asked.

“This is going to shit.  Watch each other’s backs.”

In the gloom, Carson could see Anita nodding.

The man swung his hand out like he was going to club her across the head, but he put his hand firmly at her neck and shoulder instead.  He pulled her a bit closer.  “We’re family.”

“The Cavalcantis are-”

“No.  I don’t know.  It depends on what they decide to do,” the man said.  He glanced around, checking the coast was clear.  “Everyone knows Davie’s protecting his bullshit.  If he makes that more important than Andre?  The rest of us?  I want to know you’re all safe, before we keep going down that road.”

“Davie’s got the police and more.  He hired people,” a young man said.  “He’s not putting us in danger.  He can do that with them, instead.  I don’t care about this ‘bullshit’.”

“We’re the ones stuck on the side of the mountain, while they’re burning down everything we’ve built down there,” the older man said.

More that than the fires?

“If the Civil Warriors attack us here, we need to be ready.  It makes sense, and the way you’re talking-”

“Daniel,” the older man interrupted.  “I’m not saying it doesn’t make sense.  I’m talking about something more foundational.  Family.  I know your mom.  I know your dad.  I’m not saying we’re disloyal, or that we should be.  I’m saying I want to know where you are, that you’re safe.  That I can look them in the eye.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay?  Yes?  Yes.”

Rallying the younger family members.  Reassuring.  Or needing reassurance.

The back door of the house opened.

Davie stepped outside, flanked by others.  Cavalcanti higher-ups.  The ones that remained.  Two men in army fatigues, one with a jacket, one with a dark green tank top and pants.  Both heavily armed.

Davie motioned.

Getting the group that had just been talking to walk over, in the direction of the driveway and garage area, which Mia and Carson had just come from.

Davie took the high ground, where the ground sloped up to meet the side of the house, looking down on the cars beneath.  And the crowd.

Mia was breathing harder.  Carson put a hand on her arm.

“The car we saw down there was Andre,” Davie said.  “Nicholas is still recovering.  What they did and what they’re doing is a distraction.”

“The sirens?  There was a warning, right?”

“I have a system.  One they shouldn’t know about.  It says there will be winds.  But we can wait until the wind starts to pick up before we worry.  Until then, it’s noise.”

People seemed restless, by Carson’s estimation.  Feeling the mounting pressure, and the danger of being caught out.

“Noise,” Davie reiterated.  “Carlos?  Get our people sweeping the woods.  Be on alert.  Move in pairs.  Anything comes up, send someone up here to report it.  They’re jamming communications, trying to throw us off.  Be alert, stay focused.  These two men will be out there.  If they give an order, pretend it comes from me.”

Carson nudged Mia’s arm.  She met his eyes, in the dark.

They moved around, away from Davie and the assembled crowd that was getting its marching orders.

Checking one vent.  One man stood nearby, armed.  It would be too dangerous to pick a fight.  Doubly dangerous to try to get the vent cover off and Ripley out before Davie wrapped up.

By mutual agreement, with all eyes on Davie, they crossed the patio, bent over, using furniture and the natural rises and falls of the space.

Into the dark of the house.  Where the sirens were just a little quieter.  They could only hope it was safer than the woods were, now.

---

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Moses drove, and Valentina sat in the passenger seat.  As the two cars pulled up alongside, Carson, driving the other car, called over, “Be careful!  Protests passed through here!  Opportunists!”

“Yep!” Moses called back.

“Pass it on to the others!?”

Moses waved his assent.

Carson pulled ahead a bit more.  Moses let him, moving to the right-hand lane, rolling down his window.  As another car pulled up, Valentina had a clear view of Addi, sitting in the back seat with her hands bound, bandage on part of her face.

Moses relayed the same info.

They had four cars, and had split up the people.  Addi, her dad Tony, and Uncle Andre were in the three cars.  Mia and Carson were in the lead car, and they didn’t bring any people because they wanted to be free to talk strategy.

“Are you some kind of badass or something?” Jermaine asked, from the back seat.  He was one of the Kids she’d brought in, which was a whole complicated thing.

Valentina was caught off guard by the question.  It came out of nowhere, and it brought up so many different thoughts and feelings, all of them confused in some way about how that sort of question could even be aimed at her.  She was decidedly average looking at best, with a too-small chest and too-wide hips that would only ever look good if she was underweight, which she could not sustain.

Jermaine looked like the sort of guy who knew what went into being a ‘badass’.  He was in his early twenties but hadn’t lost those long-limbed proportions some teenage guys had, had a mop of curly, glossy black hair, and had that combination of swagger and that permanently set jaw that suggested he was always prepared to be sucker punched or something.  Valentina had seen that combination of traits while growing up.

Though Jermaine also had an air of disrespect that wouldn’t have worked with her dad.  Sometimes guys would be invited to eat with the family and they’d be clearly out of their element.  Maybe, knowing her dad, intentionally so.

Addi’s dad sat in the back seat, beside Jermaine, silent, watching her through the mirror.

“Why are you asking?” Valentina asked, aware it had been a second since he’d asked.  She felt overly conscious of how she was dressed- hair in a ponytail, a t-shirt with bands of different color at the collar and sleeves, and jeans.  She felt like a kid who’d dressed how her mom had told her to.

“You’re Davie Cavalcanti’s kid.  That’s something.”

“I don’t belong to him, I don’t… I don’t think I got anything from him.  He mostly ignored me, except to treat me like shit.  Fuck him.”

“I get that.  Fuck him, yeah.”

“I don’t think it’s important,” Moses said, from the driver’s seat.  “Being a ‘badass’.”

“Mia… heh, feels weird to have a name for her,” Jermaine said.  He was just tall enough that, even with Valentina’s seat pulled all the way forward, he sat sort of diagonally, legs spread, one arm draped along the top of the back seat.  “She gets stuff done.  There are only three people I’ve ever listened to, you know?  That comes from respect.  It’s important.”

Seeing segments of him in the reflection, the definition in his arm, his hair, his eyes, and how big his hand was, with his general confidence, it sent a electric thrill through the core of her body.  A very bad thrill that she would absolutely, one hundred percent never act on, even if he was the opposite of who he was in personality, and interested, and a gentleman with her.

Because she was who she was, and thinking in that direction made her think about how she’d been with the soldiers in the Cavalcanti house, and there was other stuff going on, and she didn’t know who she was or what she was doing.  Any of those things could take five-ish years to figure out.  Years with quiet and without the other stuff in the way.

But she was lonely and she really wanted a hug, and the fact she didn’t have anyone with her in the car that she could lean on made that feeling worse.  She could imagine his long arms wrapped around her in a hug, hand stroking her hair, or-

Or nothing.

Something about him appealed to her in a dangerous way, that tugged on some string in her belly that was attached to groin and heart.  She shifted position, crossing her legs as much as she could with her knees touching the dash.

She pressed lips against tongue to wet them, because her mouth was dry, and then said, “Which three people did you listen to?”

“Leader of my old gang,” he said.  “Mia.  My dad… for a little while.”

“Not Davie or the other Cavalcanti leaders?”

“Never dealt directly with them.  Hey, did you really slice up that girl’s face?”

She was caught off guard by the question.

“I’m not proud of it,” she said, avoiding looking back at Addi’s father.

“She fucked your life up, right?”

“Who’s telling you this stuff?”

“There was discussion.  About you, about the situation.  Wondering if you were legit.  Not, you know, a meeting.  More constant talk.  People overheard Highland yelling at you, then passed it on.”

“Great.”

“We decided to stick it out, mostly because Highland was around.  Then after he wasn’t, MIa was around.”

“Some didn’t stick around,” Moses said.

“Are you thinking of going?” Jermaine asked.

“No.  It’s money and I’ve got a debt to repay.”

“To Mia?”

“To her too.”

In the rearview mirror, Valentina could see Jermaine’s head bobbing.

He met her eyes in the reflection.  “But you cut up her face, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, quiet.  The memory of that scene flashed through her mind.

Was there ever going to be a day when it didn’t?  Should there be?

“With my dad, I listened because I had no other choice.  Until I got taller, and I started to be able to fight back,” Jermaine said.  “I didn’t win every time, I was still a little punk, I still stopped listening to anything he had to say.  He lost that respect from me.  He got pissed at me once, I wasn’t doing my chores, he took a swing at me with a baseball bat while my back was turned.  Said to make dinner, do the dishes, tidy, and he’d take me to the hospital for my arm when everything was done.”

“I’m sorry,” Valentina said.  She could imagine the younger Jermaine.

Jermaine snorted.  “I was boiling water, emptied sugar and jam into it.  Heard about that from friends.  Prison thing.  Makes it sticky, but still boiling.”

“Yeah,” Valentina said, uncomfortable.

“Put some drain cleaner into it, and poured the mix over him while he sat in front of the TV.  I tried to get his face, but most of it ended up in his lap.”

“Oh my god,” Valentina murmured.

“I won.  Beat him.”

“Your dad lost, anyway,” Moses said, quiet.

“What did you do after?” Valentina asked.  She wasn’t sure why she asked.  Maybe she needed to make Jermaine make sense.  If he was a bad person, then that wasn’t the worst thing, because it helped put all feelings of attraction away.

“I got my shit from my room and went to my friends.  Didn’t even look at my dad.  They splinted my arm.  Things kind of went to shit after that, I think they knew I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so they pushed me.  Then a little while after that, Mia.  I left.  New start.  I never did end up finding out what happened with my dad.”

“Mia said he ended up at the same hospital she worked at,” Valentina said.

“Oh yeah?  Love that,” Jermaine said.

“Lost one leg.  And his, um, parts.”

“You can say cock and balls.  Nobody here’s going to blush.”

Valentina shifted position.  She’d been right in the middle of her feelings of attraction dying, and then he tugged on that string.

Addi’s dad was silent, staring.

“Or are you blushing?  Did I make you shy?”

“Jermaine,” Moses said, his voice a warning.

“What?”

“Respecting her is the same as respecting Mia.  It’s as simple as that.”

Jermaine sniffed, smiled, then turned his focus to the window.  Valentina could see a bit of his face in the side view mirror, illuminated when they drove past fires or when they turned onto a road that ran along the curve of a hill, the moon mostly unobstructed in shining on them.

“Whenever I think about that moment, the jam water, my dad in front of the TV, I’m all, ‘fuck yeah, fuck you’.  Punch the fucking air.  Feels good.  I kept wondering, did I kill him?  Or fuck him up so bad he can’t have sex?  Or was in only some scars to remember me by?  Too much water, not enough stick?  He really lost his leg, cock, and balls?”

“Yeah.”  The very basics were in Mia’s notes, but Mia had told Valentina the full story as a warning about who some of The Kids were.  Jermaine being one of the dangerous ones.

“Fuck yeah,” Jermaine said, voice soft.

He was grinning, teeth showing, still looking out the window.  She was pretty sure he didn’t realize she could see him.  And that he wouldn’t care much if she could.

There, okay.  Feelings put firmly away.

Hopefully.

“As a heads up, Jermaine?” Moses asked.

“Yeah?”

“If Andre Cavalcanti is to be believed, Valentina’s sister- is it okay if I call her that?”

“Yeah,” Valentina said.  “I don’t know her all that well, but yeah.  Basically.”

“Yeah.  Thanks.  She was hurt while in captivity.  Probably badly.  Don’t bring up that shit with your dad, Jermaine.  Especially around Mia and Carson.”

“Mia’s not a pussy.”

“No, and neither is Carson.  But they’re pissed, they’re upset.  Bringing it up in the wrong way or treating it like a joke is a good way to get on their bad side.  Don’t.”

“I will take that under advisement, Mr. Moses, sir,” Jermaine replied, in the tone of someone who was not taking what he was hearing seriously.

“This is my neighborhood,” Tony said, breaking into the conversation.  He ducked his head a little. “It looks like things have gone downhill.”

“Yeah.  The group ahead is slowing down.  Sit tight,” Moses said.

Carson took a minute before pulling over and parking by the sidewalk.  The others followed suit.  Carson used the camera-detecting device to sweep the street before motioning.  Everyone got out of the cars.

Jermaine offered a hand to Valentina as she got out of the car- a bit easier when she could push the seat back more.  Then he went over to where the others were.  Michelle had ridden with Ben, Rider, and Addi.  Kenny, Julito, and Rosales had ridden with Uncle Andre.

Jermaine hugged Michelle from behind as she walked over to the group, and used his long legs to take loose steps, almost on either side of her, the hug around her shoulders pulling her upper body left and right with each step he took.

“You open your door,” Mia told Tony.  “No funny business.”

“I’m not like you, I don’t trap my house.”

“Does that change any aspect of what I just said?” she asked.

Tony walked up the stairs.  Carson went with him.

“We were thinking we’d leave you here once we’ve given the place a once-over, visit his office.  We’ll see what we can get,” Mia said.  “If he cooperates, we leave them chained up somewhere for other members of the family to find, in their own house.”

“It’s not about that,” Tony said, as he opened the door.  He glanced back at his daughter.  “They’ve fortified.  This is a massive group, one that incorporated dozens of small to medium size ones, and annihilated the ones that wouldn’t bend the knee.  If he’s at his house, most of his people will be there, protecting that property, protecting him.  Keeping your daughter prisoner.  There’s no magic word I can give, no secret door, nothing like that.”

“Inside with you,” Carson said.

The property was large enough that the neighbors weren’t really in view, and the house interior was nice, if somber, with elegant, darker wood paneling.  It looked like it would be dark even with the lights on, but with only the scant light coming through the windows, and the light of three flashlights and a bunch of smartphones on flashlight mode, it was darker still.

“Kids?  Sweep the house,” Carson said.  “Make sure there are no guards or anyone left behind.”

Jermaine and the others went ahead and did just that.  Carson went with them.

“You won’t find anything like what you want,” Tony told them.

“Do you realize what’s likely to happen if we don’t?” Mia asked.

“I have an idea.  I want you to know I’m not being malicious.  If you do decide to kill us, I hope the fact I’m not fighting you means you’ll make it swift.”

Mia drew her gun, and pointed it at his head.

“Woah!” Ben spoke up, stepping forward.  Valentina startled, too, both at the gun and at Ben’s voice behind her.  Her heart hammered.

Tony’s head bent to one side, ducked down, eyes on the floor, gun in his peripheral vision.  As the gun moved, he cringed more.

“You’re not a soldier,” Moses said.

“I never claimed to be, sir.”

Moses snorted air at the ‘sir’.

“You enabled them,” Mia said.

“I did.”

“Is there dirt on Davie?  Did he do things as a child?”

“Yes.  More as a teenager than as a child.  A lot.  The files are in my office.”

Mia motioned.  “Moses?  Watch Addi?”

“Of course.”

“Especially around them?”

Meaning Ben and Rider.

“Yeah.”

“We’re not a danger.  Believe it or not, I’m pretty good at the investigation thing,” Ben said.  “I found you.”

“After we’re gone.”

The door to the office was at the end of the hallway, not too far from the dining area, which was at the far end of the hall.  Valentina was pretty sure she’d been here once, but it would’ve been when she was a kid.  Because it was close, she ventured behind the group.

On their way there, they passed Rosales, who had just checked that end of the house.  The girl gave Valentina a long, wary look as she passed her.

“It won’t achieve anything,” Tony said.  “Even if you found something to dig into, he’s too insulated by now.”

“Weaknesses, things to prod at,” Mia said.  “People, places, and things he values.  Things he comes back to, patterns.”

“The bodies- in the basement,” Valentina said.  Her words hitched as the mental image of the limbless body in the basement jumped into her head.  She cleared her throat slightly and tried to clear her mind’s eye.  “He values them, I think.”

“Yeah.  The trick is getting to that.  Where is the generator in that house?  Assuming he’s getting his power somehow…”

“I have no earthly idea,” Tony replied.

“Sexual assault.”

“He pursued an ex-classmate after she moved schools.  He dropped in on her, then when she rebuffed him, he assaulted her.  I wasn’t the lawyer for that.  My mentor was.  After a second incident, his father got upset, and he changed tacks.”

“Incident reports here… different locations.”

“He had to change schools after bullying a student to the point of attempted suicide.”

Mia rifled through papers, eyes scanning each.  “Still wanted power over people.  Different form.”

It made Valentina think of Addi.

Lit by flashlights, Mia looked like she had in the computer room.  There was a desperation in her expression, a tension to the muscle, a clench in her jaw, that went with this.  When her means of getting to grips with a situation was this.

“Several incidents a year.  No incidents in August.  Where does he go?”

“Hatch Creek,” Tony replied.  “It’s a lake, despite the name.  The family has cabins there.  He got up to just as much trouble there, but the family money goes a long way there, so less came of it.”

“That would be the sort of place he’d keep mementos, records, private things.”

“Perhaps.  It doesn’t matter.  Twelve years ago, contamination from chemical runoff ruined the lake.  Unswimmable, dangerous to drink the tap water.”

“Two years after the deregulation and defunding of the EPA.”

“Yeah.”

“All the more reason to check.  A cabin in an area nobody goes to, with memories attached to it.”

“It’s gone now.  They leveled all the cabins and put up fencing, specifically to avoid contaminants from the area being taken out.”

“I want to independently verify that,” Mia said.  “Because this would be a choice moment, after cooperating with us so far, for you to introduce a lie that derails us.”

“I can verify,” Valentina said.

Mia raised her head.

“I went there as a baby.  I’ve seen pictures.  Including before and afters of the cabin.”

“Thank you,” Mia said.  “Damn it.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s good.”

“As I said,” Tony commented.  “He’s a man of few weak points, and he covers those points well.  With a literal army, I’d say.  And things that would be weak points for others are things he embraces.  With audacity, even.”

“The lake’s a pretty far distance, too,” Valentina remarked.

“There might be someone I could have hired, if I could get to a working phone,” Mia replied.

“Upstairs is clear,” Carson said, as he approached the door.

“There’s information here, I don’t know how to use it,” Mia said.  “If we had phones, I’d call people, see if there’s a thread.  If we had time.  We don’t have time.”

“We can check the office,” Carson said.

“You’ll find things there about properties the Cavalcantis own, business, taxes, there are documents laying out payment structures, paper and digital both.  With my car keys, there’s a small key with a black rim around it.  Use that to get into the cabinets.  And none of it will matter,” Tony said.  “A year ago, a piece of that would have derailed him.  I’m not telling you that to discourage you, I just don’t want you to be disappointed and then take out that disappointment on me and my daughter.”

“We won’t be long,” Carson said.  “Moses, Valentina, watch things?”

“Have at it, Ben,” Mia told Ben, pushing folders across the desk.

“We should do something about Addi.  We can cuff her to the railing.”

The staircase traced a curved quarter-circle from the smack-dab middle of the wood paneled ground floor to the side of the second floor, where an ‘L’ of hallway looked down on things from more railing above.  Carson was gesturing at the side of the staircase.

“I know I don’t get any special favors, but I’d like to ask, please cuff me to my bed.  There’s a metal headboard.”

“Addi,” Tony said.  “Think two steps ahead.”

Addi looked at him, and she looked momentarily bewildered.

“There are several very dangerous teenagers here.  You don’t want to be bound to a bed and unable to defend yourself.”

“I’m tired,” Addi said.  “My face hurts.  Is it really that much better if I’m in the middle of everything?”

“Valentina?” Mia asked.

“Be kind,” Ben cut in.

“The bed’s fine,” Valentina said.  “You won’t be attacked.”

“Don’t drag your feet,” Carson said.  “Let’s check.”

Valentina went with.

Addi’s room was very ‘princess’ style, and the bed itself had a headboard of metal bent into decorative curls and painted silver.  It connected to the pillars that held up a canopy.  Carson checked it over, giving it some firm, full-body tugs, then lifted up the mattress, checking there was nothing around it.

“Can you give us anything, Addi?” Carson asked.

“No.  You already used my account to start shit online.”

“Lie down.”

She sat on the bed, then set head on pillow, hands above her head.  Carson connected the cuffs to the metal.  There was some leeway for her to change position, but not a ton.

“We won’t be long,” he told Valentina.  “Are you okay?  Do you need anything?”

“I want this to be over.  I want him stopped.  I want Ripley to be okay.  She was a good kid.”

“She was,” Carson said, meeting her eyes for a long few seconds.  “I”m suspicious that us going to the office like this might be more important for a quiet moment and space to think, away from people and prisoners, than it is for what we might dig up.”

Valentina nodded.  She felt better about them going, hearing that.

“It’s been a lot, without much time to sleep.  If you need to rest, rest.  If you think you can get information out of them, I won’t say no.”

“I don’t want to be that kind of person.”

“Okay, that’s fine.  Then be careful.  Tony Arcuri was right, this is a vulnerable position for a girl to be in, and The Kids are… some of them might be dangerous.”

Valentina nodded.  She’d picked them when desperate for hires and they’d just been names on the list.  She hadn’t realized the implications of who they were, and that, if Mia and Carson had been in her shoes, they wouldn’t have brought them in.

“Rosales wants to please and goes with the flow.  Michelle is tougher, but make sure…”

He led her out of the room Addi was in.  Valentina glanced back to see Addi lying with her head on a pillow, staring at the wall, before the door partially shut and blocked her view.

“…make sure nobody’s pushing her buttons.  There are many and they’re easy to press.”

“Okay.”

“If you left her guarding Addi and Addi started taunting her, it could get bad.  But she’s your best bet for guard, otherwise.  Jermaine and Kenny are dangerous in very different ways.  Julito is a good second pick.  Maybe together with Rosales.”

“Alright.”

“You be careful too,” he said, giving her a meaningful look.  “With Kenny and Jermaine.  I saw him helping you out of the car.  He’s… not a choice Mia and I would support.  Not like the boy with the Horse Piss Ranchers would be.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t- choose him.”

Carson waited one beat too long before saying, “Sure.  Good.”

Had she been that obvious?  Or was Carson that perceptive?

She hoped he couldn’t see her flush in the gloom.  “I’m attracted to him but I have a brain.  And way too much other stuff going on.”

“Glad to hear it.  Moses is trustworthy but he’s not someone used to being pushed back against.  In a pinch, The Kids will back each other up first.  If things fall apart, back him up.  He’ll need it.”

She nodded again.

He kissed her forehead, which felt really weird.  But it also didn’t feel sketchy.

Purely weird because it felt like a dad thing.  And because he looked so sad for a moment there, and he… wasn’t a guy who looked sad a lot.

Her heart ached, as he took the stairs two at a time on his way down.  “Mia.”

Mia was packing up some things she’d pulled out, and crossed the hallway with long strides.  Valentina watched from the railing.

“Valentina and Moses are in charge,” Carson said.

Then they were gone, taking Andre with them.

This might be were Carson floated the idea of this being a lost cause to Mia, and dealt with the emotional aftermath, away from everyone.

Unless they could find something.

“Michelle?” Valentina said.  “Guard the door.  Let her sleep, but look in enough that she’s not pulling something.  Julito, pick someone and keep an eye on the guy.”

“Can we steal their stuff?”

“Sure.  Whatever.  As long as you’re focused on the job.”

“And so long as it doesn’t slow you down,” Moses said.  He was cuffing Tony to the staircase.  “If you’ve got three bags each and you’re taking a minute to get loaded into the car, the Hursts won’t be happy.”

“If you’d said no, we’d be looting stuff when you weren’t looking, anyway,” Kenny said.

“I figured,” Valentina replied.  “Tony, are you going to kick up a fuss?”

“I am going out of my way to not kick up any kind of fuss,” he said.  “I am cooperating to the best of my ability.  Again, I hope you remember-”

“Yeah,” she said.  She had to walk partially down the stairs to see Rider.  He was standing in the door to the office.  “Progress?”

“Looking over it all,” Rider said.  “He owns judges, he owns police.  He owns licensed marshals.  I don’t know what we could find that would break it all open.”

“Then Natalie and Ripley die, and it’s your fault,” she said.

“We’re not the bad guys here.”

“You brought the Cavalcantis back into this,” she said.  “Do you think you’re the good guys?”

Ben emerged from the office.  He gave her a long, serious look.  Wordless.

“What?” she asked.  “If you’re good at the research thing, keep researching.  You won’t achieve anything by giving me puppy dog eyes.”

“I convinced you not to torture Addi Arcuri.”

“I convinced me,” she told him.  “You were one source of input among many.  You don’t get the credit.  It would have fucked everything up.  Tony would be kicking up a fuss, we’d be fighting every step of the way.  And she loses value as a hostage.”

“Yeah,” Ben said.  “Sure.”

She was picking some of her words with the notion that there were Kids who’d be in earshot to hear them.  It surprised her how comfortable it felt.  Was this how it was for Carson?

Rider gave Ben’s shoulder a light push, and he went back into the office.

“Check on the hostages?” Ben asked Rider, quiet.  “I’m fine.”

Rider nodded.

On the staircase, Julito and Kenny were talking.

“They gayed up the middle east, right?”

“Did they?  I thought that was mind game shit.”

“If it was, it was mind game shit that worked.  Nah, with how gay things got, that worked.”

“But that’s the mind game.  What’s the term?  When you give someone a fake drug and they convince themselves it works?”

“Placebo,” Valentina said, as she walked past.  “Like when you give someone a drink and tell them it’s alcoholic when it’s not, and they act drunk.”

“Private school girl knows.  It was a placebo.  Mind game.”

“It can be more than a mind game,” she said.  “Placebos can work, kind of.”

“Why don’t we give them all the time, then?”

“Who knows?” she asked.  She had a sense of why, but it wasn’t worth getting into a long debate.  She felt very tired, and this conversation wasn’t helping that feeling.  “Why are we talking about this?”

“I’m getting around to that,” Kenny said.  “But- wait, lawyer man.  Were you around back then?  Chemical weapon that turned the Arabs gay?”

“See,” Julito said, “I’m saying it didn’t, or if it did, it was a tiny number and that started the ball rolling.  Chemical weapons don’t even reach that far.”

“They do, that’s why they’re so goddamn effective.”

“The way it really worked is anyone could say they were affected by the bomb, and how are you going to handle that?  By the time they figured it out, they lost control over the situation, guys were sucking dick left and right.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Michelle asked, from upstairs.  Jermaine, also upstairs, laughed.

“It affected the women too,” Kenny said.

“I’m saying it didn’t affect anyone, it’s mind games.  It was a regular amount of gay, but they had permission.  It was a culture bomb.”

“How much gay do you think is regular, Julito?”

“It was very a two thousand and five thing to do,” Valentina said.

“What?” Kenny asked.

“The attitudes of that time, look at movies from back then… nevermind.”

“I will nevermind.  Hey, I was asking, were you around then, lawyer man?” Kenny asked, prodding Tony.

“I was around back then,” Tony said, with restrained patience.  “I didn’t pay much attention.  It seemed like a stunt, some desperate attempt to throw them off, when they kept attacking us, and didn’t really do anything except make the fundamentalists angry.”

It became increasingly clear Kenny wasn’t going to get around to a coherent point.  It was two guys shooting the shit.  Little more.

As long as they were talking about that, they weren’t getting up to trouble, at least.

What sort of culture bomb would blow up her family?

She doubted there was one.

Rosales was at the other end of the house, either looting or… maybe making a late bite to eat.  Jermaine had moved upstairs, presumably to loot, but had moved down the hallway toward Michelle.

Valentina ascended the stairs for a better view, to check things were okay.

Jermaine sat with Michelle, her back to his front, his arms around her again.  One hand had had slid down the front of her shirt.

“Guys,” Valentina said.

Jermaine left his hand where it was, and gave her a bit of a shit-eating grin.  There was something in his eyes that made her feel like this was purely for her.  She wondered if Michelle felt the same way.

She walked over, and he pulled the hand out before she got to them.

“You good?” she asked Michelle.

“Yeah.”

It was very hard to read Michelle’s body language.

“Is our hostage asleep, and what position is she sleeping in?” Valentina asked.

“Um.  Yes, on her side?”

“Do you know, or are you asking?”

“Last I checked, she was.”

“Is she facing the door, or facing the wall?”

“Wall.”

Valentina stepped over Michelle and Julito’s feet- Julito was long-legged enough that even sitting behind Michelle, his feet were about as far forward as hers were.  She cracked the door open.

Addi lay on her side, facing the door, wide awake.  The light from the Valentina’s flashlight shining through the cracked door made the whites of her eyes very visible in the gloom.

“You up to anything?” Valentina asked.

“Fuck you,” Addi muttered.  The position of her arms, attached to the bed, meant she was saying the words into her upper arm.

Valentina shut the door.  “Split up.  If you’re distracting each other, you’re not being good guards.”

“Two is better than one,” Jermaine said.

“Not if you’re like this.”

“Three is better than two,” he said, unwrapping an arm from Michelle and patting the ground beside him.

She shook her head.

“Damn,” he said.

But he got up and he went downstairs.

Valentina let herself into Addi’s room.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Little fucking late for that, you bitch.”

“Be good, Addi!” Tony called up.  He’d probably heard the biting tone of her words.  “We’re almost through this, I think!”

Addi glared at Valentina.

Valentina needed five seconds, like Carson had implied might be the case with Mia.  Being here, Addi glaring at her, was easier than being out there, feeling on guard around The Kids.  Who were older than her, who could get out of control so easily.

She looked around Addi’s room.  The walls were a pink-and-cream wallpaper, a faint fleur-de-lis pattern repeating.  There was a cluster of pictures around a vanity mirror on the desk, a scattering of makeup products in the space around a little white laptop with a mouse plugged into the side.  There was just enough space cleared for careful mouse movement, but Valentina couldn’t imagine using the computer much without knocking bottles over onto the floor.  It would have driven her crazy.

Some clothes were laid out on flat surfaces or hanging on the back of chairs, but it was fairly neat.  They probably had a maid.  Dusty rose carpet.  One music poster from a singer Valentina didn’t know.  One poster that was for some show in Paris, with a half-silhouette of a woman filled in with cityscape and lights.  Coin toss whether it was there because of the romanticism of Paris and the idea of it, or if Addi had actually gone.

It felt very normal.  A bit young, but normal.

Valentina used her phone light to look at pictures on the wall.  Faces she recognized from school.  Some school activities.  Addi didn’t have the Cavalcanti curse of only really being able to associate with Cavalcantis without things getting complicated.  So she interacted with a lot of their year.  Almost an opposite to how things had ended up for Valentina.  Or for Gio, really.  As if that was a different her.

“He’ll win,” Addi said.  “You won’t get the kid you’re trying to rescue.  You’ll run.  He’ll find you.  Because he has those kinds of resources.  He’ll bring you home.  Because he has those resources too.  He’ll put you in that basement.”

There weren’t a lot of books, just one narrow bookshelf, which was close to the vanity, and the narrow ledge between the spines of books and the edges of the shelves served as more space to put products and random makeup tools on.  Valentina hadn’t paid a lot of attention to that in recent years.  Somehow this little roller thing was in fashion now?

Aside from a top row of books that might’ve been bought in childhood and kept for the memories, the books themselves seemed to mostly be books bought for school, kept because they were classics and suggested class.

“I wonder if he’ll let me visit,” Addi said.  “Gio.  Look at me.”

Gi- Valentina did her best not to.  She looked at the clothes.  She knew the stores they were bought at.  She’d been there with friends, before.  That much hadn’t changed in the time her life had unraveled.

“Psycho girl, psycho dad,” Addi said.  “Look at me.  Gucci girl.  Gio.”

“You’re not worth it, Addi, and that’s not my name.”

“Gucci gang,” Addi said, whispering the words.

“Left all that behind.”

She felt so sad, sifting through this… this version of a life she should have had.  Where she could’ve been a princess with a princess room and a dad that cared.  Was there a world where she could’ve handled things better, won her dad’s affections, and… it would all be different?

“You change your name and you think you’re different, you’re past it all?”

“Do you want me to hurt you?” Gio asked, wheeling on Addi.

Addi fell silent.  She stared Gio down.

“What?  You wanted me to look at you.  Got something to say?  Some biting words that’ll get to me?”

“I wanted to look you in the eyes, that’s all,” Addi said.

“Right.”

“You’re not different.”

Was Addi just trying to get to her?  Or was she trying to distract?  Or… what?  Did she want to get hurt?  Was this whole dynamic so perverse that Addi would be okay with getting cut again if it meant she won some psychological victory?

She closed her eyes, trying to center herself again.

I should check on The Kids.

At least the worst thing they could do was in this room, and being here meant they weren’t doing that.

Valentina exited the room, walking past Michelle, who was now sitting with back to the railing, facing the door, and checked.  Rider was in the hallway.  Ben was presumably still in the study.  The boys were still talking about gay bombs, now with Jermaine as part of the conversation.  Rosales was eating half of a sandwich.  She’d given half to Julito.

“Kick her in the cunt.”

Valentina looked down at Michelle, who’d just spoken.

“A solid cunt punt is very satisfying,” Michelle said.  “It got me kicked out of my last foster place.  I didn’t actually get into another before turning eighteen.  A year in shitty limbo with twenty other shitty kids in the system.  But it was worth it.”

“If I did it, I don’t think I’d stop kicking.”

“Been there.  When I was younger.”

Michelle half-twisted to look at the group of four downstairs.

“You good?” Valentina asked.

“Being around them is like coming home.”

“I’m not sure what home feels like.  It might be what it’s like, being with the Hursts.”

“Nah,” Michelle said.  “I’ve seen you with them.  They’re… good for you.  Give you confidence.  They give you power.  But they’re not your home.”

“And those guys are, for you?”

“They’re my home, but they’re… none of that other stuff.  So when I’m done, I’ve got to go.  Then I’ll spend the rest of my life aching for home again.  Trying to find something like it that’s not going to fuck me up.  Gotta, or I’ll end up like my fucking mom.”

“The foster mom you cunt punted?” Valentina asked.

Michelle smirked.  “Nah.  Bio mom.  I stay with them, I end up like her.”

Valentina didn’t know the full story, but she didn’t need it either.  “You’re probably the smartest one of the bunch, figuring all that out.”

“Nah.  That’s the scary shit.  I’m not.  Means that when I’m with them, I’ve gotta do the dumb thing or the thing they want me to do, and there’s only so long you can live like that before you disappear.  Mostly disappear.  ‘Cause sometimes you surface, I guess, and those are the moments you’re meanest, or craziest, or stupidest.  Makes you want to disappear again.  And that’s you, rest of your life.”

“I know… parts of that.  Disappearing.  Fighting to surface.”

“Cutting her face?  That was surfacing?”

“No.  No.  I threw myself at Cavalcanti guys.  Soldiers.”

“Were they any good?”

“No.  Didn’t get that far, mostly.  Cutting Addi was… disappearing again.  Worse than.”

“Huh.”

“Can I trust you, Michelle?”

“Probably not.  I don’t trust me.”

Valentina frowned.

“Being honest.  Don’t cut my pay or anything.”

“Want me to keep Jermaine away from you?  I’d tell Mia and Carson to do the same,” Valentina said, quiet.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The…” Valentina put a hand at her collar, flat, and slid it in the direction of her chest.

“Doesn’t matter,” Michelle said.  Her expression was flat.  Flatter than it had been all conversation.  “None of that sort of thing matters.  So.”

She said it with such emphasis, then the ‘so’ felt like a half-formed thought.  A follow-up that never came.

Valentina frowned.  So.

“I’m going to keep you two separate.”

Michelle shrugged.  “Your call, boss.”

“Are they still talking about that down there?”

Michelle’s body jittered with a silent chuckle.

“If you need a break, call Julito and Rosales over.  Just them.  Say I said so.”

“Yeah.”

Valentina almost went back to check on Ben.  But instead, she returned to Addi’s room.

Addi was still awake, lying on her side.  “Fuck you.  Get out of my room.”

She wasn’t sure why she’d come back.  She’d wanted an insight into who Addi was, and she… hadn’t gotten that.  That something so huge in her own life couldn’t be reflected in Addi’s living space?  She wanted the books to all be books about psychopaths.  Or research into psychological manipulation.  She wanted there to be signs of something more perverse at play.

“You’re so pathetic.  You lost it on me, but you couldn’t even own it.  Oh, you’re the bigger person?  You called off the dogs?   Didn’t torture me?”

She opened the closet.

Nothing.

“You cut my face open, you bitch!  You’re all the worst parts of your family, and you can’t even own it.”

She didn’t get Addi.

She could get Michelle.  She could even get Jermaine.  Or Ben.  She could get Carson.  or Mia.  She felt like being around them, she grew as a person, or she found skills she didn’t know she had.  Maybe because she’d groped for so long in the dark, looking for any cue.

Maybe not at all.  Maybe being traumatized and abuse hadn’t given her anything at all, and this was latent, natural talent.

Maybe she’d never know.

But it frustrated her.

“When your dad gets you, he’ll cut worse than your face.  But maybe I’ll put in a special request.  Tell him where to cut.  Or maybe he’ll let me use the knife.”

Valentina, in the midst of walking over to look at old, cherished toys in the corner, by the light of the flashlight, paused.

She looked over at Addi.

“Oh, did that get your attention?” Addi asked.

She seemed so defiant.

Valentina didn’t get Addi.  She didn’t get her dad.  Maybe she got things from them, and that was responsible for the viciousness, but she didn’t understand them or where they came from, or how they were what they were.

She went over to the desk, and opened the laptop.  Was there any charge?

There was.

It was immature, but she pushed the bottles and containers of makeup off the desk so she had space to move the mouse.  While the computer booted up, she used her foot to kick containers out of the way of Addi’s reach.  Addi would have to use her feet, but… it wouldn’t be good if some makeup stick or something got used as a lockpick, or if a glass container broke and gave her something she could use to slash a throat.

The computer booted.  There were lots of photos.

She wasn’t interested in those, much.

Email.

She’d already looked through Addi’s phone.  But if she thought about it, her dad provided the phone.

Other correspondence.

An error message flashed as she opened the email.  No active connection.  No new mail would be loaded.  It didn’t matter.

A search for her father’s email turned up nothing.

She selected ‘all mail’.

Six email chains.  All were gathered under a filter of ‘boring family shit’, set so it wouldn’t pop up on the main lists of emails.

The first was one where Addi had been CC’ed on wedding plans.  She’d come from a vacation straight to the wedding between Davie and Valentina’s stepmom.  Years ago.  She’d been young enough that an older cousin had handled that, but she’d been CC’ed anyway.

Five were Christmas emails.  A picture, a rundown of recent life events across the family.  Some had a bit of discussion of family plans.  Addi hadn’t participated in any of that.  2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019.

And one email chain about fundraising for a school event.  Six hundred and eighty-three messages, collapsed.  It took the computer a few seconds after Valentina un-collapsed it before it opened.

Past the first few messages, where Addi had asked how many boxes of something or other she could get away with asking for, and said she’d messaged her dad and Andre, the topic turned to Giovanna.  Maybe because it had been around the same time, that email near the top.  Maybe because they knew it’d be weird if they corresponded this much about it.

Lots of status reports.  Reports on Valentina’s state at school.  Her reactions.

Fifty or so messages deep, there were questions about so-and-so’s daughter.  Could Addi get dirt?  What about engineering a compromising position?

What if Davie supplied a drug to be slipped in a drink?  Could they make it look like she drove after drinking?

Yes, Addi replied.

He wrote back to say he’d look in on the drug tests.  There wasn’t much follow up past that.

More questions about Valentina.  Then two weeks break.

I’m bored, Addi wrote, interrupting the break.

Pick someone in your school for me.  Student.

Eula Mendoza.  Popular girl.

Her father’s a friend of the family.  Someone we don’t like that much.

Dan Yarbrough.  The son of the stunning weather woman, who got international attention for her charm, humor and looks.

Destroy him.

Is this a test?

Yes.

What do I win if I pass?

Figuring that out is part of the test.

That wasn’t even a hundred entries deep, as Valentina skimmed.

She skimmed more.  Stopping only to glance at words, or catch the texture of a sentence.  Nothing sexual.  Nothing romantic.  But… she could see the progression in other directions.

Maybe five hundred entries down, a picture of a man tied to a chair.  Snapped mid-cry.  Snot ran from the man’s nose to his chin.  The cloth tied across his mouth was bloody.

Where do I cut him?  What do I take from him?

Don’t let me deny you your fun.

I’m interested to see what you’d say.

Valentina shivered.  She moved her chair.

So Addi, now silent, had a view, head set on her pillow, the entirety of her illuminated by the glow of the screen.  Addi’s eyes were on the image.

Addi sighed, and she seemed more relaxed than Valentina had ever seen her.  Like she could fall asleep.

“He groomed you.”

“Nah,” Addi said.  “None of that bullshit.  He loved me.  More than he loved you.”

“What was the end goal?  Was he supposed to marry you, you’d be his third wife?”

“Fuck off.  It was never like that.  It was love.  Actual love.  He saw me for who I was, I saw him.  Neither of us flinched away.  I was more like a protégé.”

“Were the tears earlier fake?  About the face?  The whining?”

“You fucking cut my face open.  You think they weren’t real tears?  But now you know.  I know him better than just about anyone.  I know how badly he’ll mutilate you, and how he’ll have doctors keep you alive while he does it.”

“And I was part of the test?”

“You were background noise.  You were one way he checked to see what the family would tolerate.  But you know he was doing worse than cyber bullying his kid.  Why is this a surprise?  You’re not that important, Gio.  Not attractive enough or good enough at anything to be useful.  You disappointed him.  You bored him.  You flinched, you showed weakness, when he showed mean.  And I didn’t flinch or look away.”

Valentina stared down at Addi.

“Whatever you do to me, it’s not going to impress him.  It won’t make him flinch.  It won’t make him change what he does.”

“He groomed you,’ Valentina repeated.

“You’re so small.  You found my emails.  Big whoop.  You clearly still don’t understand.”

Valentina nodded.

She stepped out of the room.  The hallway wasn’t much brighter than the room had been, but she felt like there was more oxygen out here.

“Watch her,” she told Michelle.  “She might act up.”

“Okay.  Figure something out?”

Valentina nodded.

The guys were still on the same topic.  Rosales had stepped away, and was talking to Rider.

“Guys?  Bring Addi’s father up.  And cuff his hands so they’re in front.”

“Do we need to be worried?” Rider asked.

“What did you do?” Tony asked.

Valentina felt enough emotions, she realized, that she wasn’t really up to trying to explain.  Words wouldn’t do it.

So she waited.  She let him stew, as they got the cuffs off the railing, moved his hands around- stopping to reassert their grip on him, when he got impatient.  Cuffed his hands in front.  They walked, Julito on one side, Kenny on the other.

She pointed.

She’d wanted to slow roll this, but then she heard the commotion.

Michelle.

I should have called for Rosales and Julito.

“Slut!”

“Shut up!” Michelle screamed.

She punched Addi in the bandaged part of her face, and not for the first time.

Tony, with hands bound, tried to pull Michelle off, which just made the guys who were managing him pull him to the floor.

“God, you’re not even good enough to be a Cavalcanti,” Addi taunted.

“Why are you agitating them!?” Tony called out.

Valentina joined in, helping to pull Michelle away.  Michelle elbowed Valentina in the throat.

Side of the throat, at least.  No smashed windpipe.

Clusterfuck.

Then, Addi thrashing and kicking, pulling on cuffs until it looked like she’d pull her hand through, leaving skin behind, Tony struggling to get to Addi, while two guys tried to hold him still- the scene froze.

Tony saw the computer.

Addi saw him see, and went still.

And from there, Valentina touched shoulders, motioning.  Tony walked over to the computer, scrolling, to read the messages surrounding the image.

Valentina left him and Addi in the room.  She checked on Michelle, who stormed off, with Moses following to make sure she wasn’t doing anything too reckless.

And then they settled.

She put Julito and Rosales in charge of watching the door.

Ten minutes later, they were still at it.  Tony said some things, quiet, intense, Addi responded.

Valentina went downstairs.  If she’d been alone, she would have wept.  From emotional release, at figuring things out, when she’d been so torn up about it, before.  And at… the size of this.

But she wasn’t alone.  The Kids wouldn’t brook that kind of weakness.

So she made a tuna salad.  The interior of the fridge was still cold enough the mayo hadn’t gone bad.  The blackout hadn’t been that long ago.

“What’s going on?” Ben asked.  “Did you find something?”

“Did you?” she asked.  She wasn’t sure why she was being stubborn and pushing back.

“Not really.”

Valentina nodded.  “I found correspondence between Addi and my dad.”

“Is it useful?  Something we can use?”

“We’re using it now.  Tony’s looking at it.”

Ben started up the stairs.

“Don’t interrupt them.”

He frowned at her.

“It’s better if you don’t.  Because if you do, he’ll be mad at the interruption.  And you aren’t who we need him to be mad at.”

“I’m not?” Tony’s voice came from upstairs.  He’d overheard.

Valentina, tupperware of tuna salad in hand, stepped out of the kitchen and craned her head up.  She saw Tony’s expression, and it looked terrible.  Like he’d seen his daughter butchered like the people in that basement.  But it was worse, in many ways.

“I was there for the initial request to Addi, that she target you.  I drew a line, after. That she could get involved with the social media aspect, correcting Nicholas’ image, then drop it.  Reading those first few messages, I realize now how relentless it would have been.”

“Is this you trying to win me over?” Valentina asked.

“I’m not thinking along those lines.”

“Did you read all of it?”

“I- no.”

“You need to.”

“I know.  I know, I don’t want to, but I know I have to.  I read enough… I got the gist of it.  I didn’t want Addi to target you.  Not just because you were relatively innocent in all of it.  I didn’t want her in proximity to a man like Davie.”

“But it happened, you didn’t know.  You weren’t paying attention to her or to me.”

“I’ll live in the worst kind of horror for the rest of my life, because of that, Giovanna.”

“You knew what kind of person he was.”

“I did.”

“But now that it hits you at home, it’s different?”

“Are you going to get mad, if I say yes?”

“No,” she said.  “I’m not sure how much ‘mad’ I have in me.  But you might deserve what you’re experiencing right now.”

“I want to die,” he said.  “And I can’t, because she needs me.”

Addi said something from the room behind him.

He looked sadder, hearing that.

“I need, um,” he started.  He shut his eyes, swallowing hard.  “I need to walk away.  I need Addi to come with me.  The rest of my family too.  I’ll take some money.  It doesn’t have to be all.”

“You want to disappear.  You need Mia’s services.”

“I- I might be able to handle it myself.  I don’t want to ask for too much.”

“Addi told me he can get to me, wherever in the world I am.  He can’t do that with you?  With her, his pet project?  When she might be trying to get in touch with him, every second you’re not looking?”

Tony was holding himself so rigid that his head shook visibly, even from downstairs, in the light of flashlights.

The house flashed, bright, everything thudding into motion as air conditioning came on, appliances started running, and all the lights turned on.  The alarm system beeped with a high pitch.

People had drawn guns in their alarm.  Now they stood there.  Everything looked different in the light, all of them standing in the narrow hallway, outside Addi’s room.

Tony looked so much worse.

“You need Mia.  You know the price.”

“I can’t get you to him.”

“Figure it out,” she said.

“I might be able to make him budge from where he’s set up.”

The power flickered.

“Will that be a problem?”

“That’s the reason it works.”

“What works?” Mia asked, as she came in.

“A way to make him budge,” Tony said.  “Every expense in the upper echelons of the family that was over a certain amount passed under my nose, for tax purposes.  I looked into it, to know if I should hide the expense, I don’t know if he knows I know-”

“No, that might not work,” Mia said.

She didn’t seem that broken up about it.

Carson strode into the center of the hallway and tossed a box aside.  Some papers scattered.

He didn’t look too upset either.  Better than when they’d both left.

Valentina descended the stairs.

“Tony’s cooperating?” Carson asked.

“Yeah.  Figured some stuff out.”

“You?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.  He gave her a kiss on the top of her head, which caught her off guard.  Mia caught her more off guard by pulling her into a hug.

Isn’t this home? Valentina thought.  Isn’t this good?

She’d really needed a hug like this.

Still hugging Valentina, Mia explained, “I just got a message.  Sent from one of Davie’s doctors.  There’s a dragon in the bottom of the bookshelf.”

“Is that a reference to her secret bookshelf?”

“Ripley’s in the ducts, she’s pretending we snuck in and got her out,” Mia said.  “We have a very small window of time.  If he’s realized, which I wouldn’t put past him, we have less.”

The lights flickered again, and then they died.  They were plunged into a darkness deeper than before, because many of them had turned off flashlights and phone lights.

Carson clapped his hands, and many people startled.  Mia, still holding Valentina, didn’t.  “Very small window of time, people!  Move!  Tie up the Arcuris.  Leave them behind, assuming they cooperated.”

“No,” Tony said.  “Not if the place might burn.  Give us new identities and an escape, let me get help for Addi, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Mia looked down at Valentina, barely visible, with many lights aimed in the wrong directions.

“Yes,” Valentina said.

Mia hugged her tighter for a second, then released her.  “Then come.”

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