State of Pursuit (7 page)

How did he know this? What did he do as a Navy SEAL that gave him such an enormous amount of insight and knowledge? That kind of discernment is rare. And it reminds me that no matter how much I love Chris, there is a
lot
that I don’t know about him.

“Hey, Commander,” Uriah whispers, snapping me out of it. “Lighten up. You’re doing good. Give yourself props.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t think patting myself on the back is a good idea,” I murmur.

Because honestly, good things don’t last.

“Hold up,” Manny says, making a closed fist to halt. “We need to let the horses rest and get them some water.”

I pull back on Katana’s reins and we come to a halt. I dismount and hit the ground.

Dang. My butt is sore
.

My thighs ache. I walk stiffly for a few minutes. Now I know why they say cowboys walked bowlegged. The rest of the platoon does the same. More than a few moans and complaints are expressed. We allow the horses to drink water, and while they rest, I study Katana’s face. She’s a gorgeous animal. Her eyes are full of intelligence and understanding.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” I whisper. “Yes, you are…”

“I knew it,” Manny says.

“What?”

“You’re a horse whisperer.”

I laugh for the first time in…well, a while.

“She
is
a woman of many talents,” Uriah says. His smile is gentle and unguarded. And for some reason that bothers me. He shouldn’t be smiling at me like that.

“We barely covered six miles,” Vera complains.

“It’s better than walking,” I say.

“It’s slow. And we have to rest these things and water them.”

“They’re
horses
, Vera.” I snap. ‘They’re carrying you
and
pack loads. Would you rather walk?”

“I’d rather drive or fly.”

“That’s not an option and you know it.”

A muscle ticks in her jaw.

“The horses were
your
idea,” she hisses in a low voice. “If Chris is dead by the time we reach him, it will be your fault.”

I jerk backward like I’ve been slapped in the face.

“If we die out here-” she says, but I cut her off.

“-If we
die
,” I retort, “we will have died fighting for something
worth
dying for. I’d rather die than take the coward’s way out.”

“So you’re calling me a coward.”

“I’m not calling you anything. I’m stating a fact.” I take a step back. “This isn’t about politics or emotions, Vera. This is about doing the right thing and having the guts to follow through with it.” I hold my open palms up. “Either you’ve got it in you or you don’t. Honestly, I really hope that you
do
.”

I turn away, not bothering to gauge her reaction. She stands there in silence, staring at the back of my head for a long while before walking away, slowly. I press my cheek against Katana’s neck and steady my emotions.

I can do this. I can handle Vera. I can handle
anything
.

Right?

I take a deep breath, feeling another set of eyes on me. Uriah. His expression is pensive as he approaches. He stands a few feet away, silent. It’s not awkward, but it’s not comfortable, either.

“Cassidy…?” he asks. “What did you
do
before the collapse?”

I cock my head. What
is
this? Are people taking numbers to talk to me?

“Why?” I say.

“I’m just curious. You seem…almost prepped for this lifestyle.”

“I was living in Los Angeles,” I reply.

“So you’ll be going home for the first time when we reach the city.”

I swallow. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yes. I’ll be seeing the ravaged remains of my former hometown for the first time. I’m not sure that it’s going to do anything to boost my confidence. From what I’ve heard, Los Angeles is little more than an oversized garbage dump these days.

Not really positive reinforcement.

“What kind of a job did you have?” Uriah presses.

I scratch Katana behind the ears. And then I decide not to answer Uriah. Call me crazy, but I’d rather nobody
but Chris Young know the details of my past life. My
normal
life. I don’t want to burst anyone’s illusion that I’m a hardcore freedom fighter by letting the cat out of the bag:
Yes, sorry folks. But Cassidy Hart was an unemployed college dropout before the EMP hit, not a police officer or a soldier. My worst worries were awkward family reunions and failed cell signals. Does that surprise you?

It’s like they say. Leaving an element of mystery is sometimes more effective than spilling your guts everywhere you go. Just saying.

Uriah realizes that I’m not going to answer his question, and instead of pressuring me, he drops the subject. He leans close to my face and whispers,

“Keeping secrets? I can keep them, too.”

He presses a soft, quick kiss to my cheek. It happens in a second, just quick enough for everyone else to miss it. I shove him backwards, shocked. He looks taken aback by my reaction. My knife flashes off my belt and into my hand.

“Don’t
ever
do that again,” I warn quietly, the blade glinting in the moonlight.

Uriah looks shocked by my reaction – and I’m a little bit surprised, too.

My instinct to fight – to defend when threatened – is stronger than it ever was. It surprises me how easily it becomes visible when I am attacked.

“Uh…I’m…sorry…” Uriah mutters, flushed. He slowly backs away, retreating into the shadows of the night, taking refuge on the other side of Mach.

I think,
What does he want from me?

Yet there’s a small part of me that thinks Uriah doesn’t want anything. That perhaps he really
does
genuinely care about me. And for some reason, that is scarier than thinking that he’s trying to manipulate my emotions.

I love Chris. I will always love Chris. That will never change.

Period.

I can feel the intensity of Uriah’s gaze on the back of my head. It’s practically drilling holes through my skull. I don’t like it. I move to the other side of Katana, casting a glance at Vera. She’s sulking as she checks her saddle, but in hindsight, our confrontation could have been a lot worse. In fact, compared to other conversations we’ve had, what happened could be considered almost civil.

After we rest the horses, we mount up again and continue our journey. I send Uriah to the back of the group. My plan is to make him eat dust for a few hours.
Maybe it will force him to think about the consequences of his stupid, rash action.

And the more I think about it, the more annoyed I become.

If Chris were here, he would teach Uriah a few things about manners…

A flicker of movement catches the corner of my left eye. “Whoa, hold it,” I say, jerking back on Katana’s reins.

We halt and Manny stops, too. He turns back to face me, alarmed. “What?” he demands.

“I saw something move,” I reply, nodding toward the spot.

I look toward the tall grass on the side of the mountain. The moonlight casts a silvery glow over the field. In the distance is a decrepit barn. But right below it…I saw something move. And because I’m a sniper, the
possibility
of movement is as problematic as the
confirmation
of it.

“Where?” Manny asks.

“On your nine o’clock,” I whisper.

“Roger that, Cassidy,” Derek says.

I quickly scan our surroundings. There’s nothing but wide-open grassy fields behind us and in front of us. We won’t hit a covered area until we reach the base of the next hill. We’re completely, totally exposed on our
flanks, except for a few rocks and defilades – low spots in the terrain.

It turns my blood to ice water.

This is a kill zone.

“What do we do, boss?” Derek asks me.

What would Chris do? What would he
say
?

“We keep going,” I say. “Dismount and gun walk to cover.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the sound of rifle fire cracks the silence of the night. Behind me, a horse rears on its hind legs, whinnying loudly. The militiaman on his back – a man named Matt – is thrown to the ground. He flies through the air like a limp ragdoll, landing with a sickening
crunch
on his neck. I drop out of my saddle and crouch on the protected side of Katana’s shoulder. I spring to the man on the ground. His head is twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes wide open.

Dead.

And there’s a red bullet wound right below his ear.

“Ambush!” I shout. “Cover, cover, cover!”

Whoever is hiding in the grass lets loose. The fusillade of rifle fire cuts through the air. I stay close to the ground, adrenaline shooting through my veins, heightening my senses. I manage to swing my rifle up
and rattle off a thirty-round magazine of suppressive fire.

Militiamen scramble, jumping out of their saddles, taking cover behind the hulking, muscled bodies of their horses. Katana snorts and paws the dirt. Another militiaman hits the ground.

“There’s at least ten shooters out there!” Derek yells, his rifle in his hands. “We’re dead if we move!”

“We have to reach cover!”

“There’s no way to get there without being shot!”

I shake my head. That’s not true. There’s always a way.

Chris would find a way. Come on, Cassie. Think like Chris
.

I yank a white smoke grenade out of my kit.

“We need to cover our escape!” I shout. “I’ll throw the first grenade, Derek will follow it with another, and then Uriah, Manny, Vera, Andrew and so on. We’ll create a smokescreen!”

The rest of the militiamen are returning fire, shooting back at muzzle flashes in the moonlight. I don’t hesitate. I pop the ring on the grenade and chuck it as far as I can into the open field. I jam my boot into the right stirrup of Katana’s saddle and hang on for dear life to the restraints, keeping my body on one side of the horse. Uriah slaps Katana’s rear flank and she charges forward.
I’ve got one leg halfway over the saddle, using her body as a shield. I maintain a desperate grip as Katana leaps away. The grenades explode, billows of thick smoke curling into the air, creating a thick curtain across the field. More grenades detonate. More gunfire. Louder, faster, quicker.

Boom, boom, boom, boom!

Murderous rounds from a large caliber weapon hammers into action.

My arms burn, clutching the saddle as Katana sprints forward. Tears slide down my cheeks, an effect of wind and resistance and the torturous effort of maintaining a grip on Katana’s saddle.

More grenades detonate. Men mount horses and follow me.

Bullets zip past, snapping the air with supersonic cracks, ricocheting off rocks and earth. I’m almost to the edge of the field – almost to the woods. My hands are sweaty, making it difficult to keep my grip on the saddle horn.

I grit my teeth and tough it out.

We reach the edge of the field. Katana stumbles just enough to throw my balance off. My grip slips and I hit the ground with a thud, rolling over and over in a tangle of arms and legs. The wind goes out of my lungs as two more grenades blast the field. I tumble into the bushes.

“Cover, cover, cover!! Come on!” Uriah yells.

Somehow, he has ended up next to me.

Figures
.

I jump to my feet, unslinging my rifle, sighting muzzle flashes. Going through the motions of battle. After all, I am a sniper. This is what I do best. In a way, it is almost like being outside of myself – mechanically but expertly reacting to an attack with fluid, instinctive actions.

Mach and Katana are stamping the ground, stomping and snorting, rolling the whites of their eyes. Poor guys. I know the feeling. Firefights are no fun. Yet they don’t run away. They stick with us. Amazing! They’ve been trained well.

The militiamen that have made it to cover stay concealed beneath bushes and behind trees, hitting the field with shots. I lie on my stomach, sweat and blood dripping down my forehead. I look through the optics of my rifle, searching the fields for shapes. There is nothing. Only muzzle flashes. I see one and snap a quick shot. A short yelp of pain follows.

“What are we dealing with here?” Uriah says. He has to shout to be heard above the sound of the gunshots and grenades. “Omega?”

“I don’t think so!” I sweep the field once more with my scope. “This isn’t their style.”

More likely than not, we’ve run across rogue militia.

This could be
worse
than Omega. Rogue militiamen and vandals aren’t organized into military units. They’re made up of brutal gang remnants – without rules and regulations. Without a code of honor.

Not that
Omega
has a code of honor, but still.

You get my point.

A militiawoman – Sarah - is shot in the chest a few yards away from me. Her heart stops beating the second the bullet punctures her ribcage. She locks eyes with me for a split second, tossing a magazine in my direction. I crouch and roll, grabbing it. She is dead. I hold her final contribution to the fight in my hand, jamming it into my gun, reloading.

I shoot toward the enemy in the waving grass, returning fire methodically. Shoot three times, change my position, shoot one time, change my position…keep moving. Constant movement keeps me from becoming a target myself.

You’re looking for the invisible enemy
, Chris would say.
You’re a sniper. You’re one of the few people in this world that can
find
them. Look for irregularity. One element that’s off
.

I settle and study the grass field through my scope again. There’s a small patch of tall grass that has been smashed. By animals? By people? I don’t know.

The grass is a clue
, Chris whispers in my head.
It’s telling you something
.

I sweep downward, at the bottom of the field. Just a few feet away from the smashed grass, there is a tiny – miniscule – black line in the dirt. I zero in on it. It’s an irregularity. The one element that I’m searching for.

I carefully aim and squeeze the trigger. My shot is clean. It hits the line, and just as I thought, my optics picks up a spray of blood in the air. I move to the left and settle again.