The Escape (26 page)

“But you asked about me.” Clarissa tucked her knees into her chest.

“I’m sorry.” Trent got up from the fire and went into the kitchen, returning with the fish and a pan. “It’s none of my business.”

“Well, it’s good to know what we’ll be walking into when we go back to Grand Central,” Clarissa said. “The women there won’t know who whom to trust. If we march in with guns blazing, they might cling to what they know and want to stay. Who knows? Colonel Lanche has done a great job of convincing everyone that the only safe place is in his camp.”

“Like brainwashing, huh?” Trent flipped the fish over the fire, and the scent of dinner in the air made Clarissa’s stomach rumble.

“Yeah, like brainwashing. Indoctrinating, almost. He gives speeches all the time, scares the shit out of everyone. Reminds us all how lucky we are to be among the survivors and to have him protecting us.”

“If the UN’s really taking over America, he’ll capitalize on that,” Trent said. “Use an outside threat to make the people cling to his authority even more.”

“Think people will consider the world’s peacekeepers a threat, though? Aren’t they supposed to help?”

“If by
help
you mean putting America under international law, yeah, they could see the globalists as a threat. Rightfully so. We would lose everything that makes America the home of the free.”

“Is it even really happening?” she wondered.

“Who knows. Maybe the President allowed the radio to be taken over just to get everyone focused. Maybe it’s a psyop.”

Psyop.

“I don’t know what that is,” she admitted.

Trent dropped a crispy fish onto a plate and handed it to her with a fork, keeping one for himself. “Watch out for the bones.”

He took a bite of the white, flaky fish, savoring it in his mouth before answering. “A psyop is a psychological operation—a specific kind of military operation. They do things, put messages out, stage events, that sort of thing, to influence how the enemy reacts.”

“But we’re not the enemy,” Clarissa said.

Trent laughed. “They’re not supposed to use psyops on Americans. But they probably weren’t supposed to set up a camp where the women were all systematically abused, either. So I’m not giving them the benefit of the doubt, forgive me.”

Clarissa ate her fish in silence, listening. “Maybe the speeches Colonel Lanche gave, all those public punishments at the big clock in the main terminal . . . maybe that was all a psyop too, then. To get us to obey. To be afraid.”

“Never say never. But you also have to realize . . . the United Nations, they have psyops too. If this is real, if they are invading, that explains the radio broadcasts from them trying to get our cooperation. If everyone in America is lulled into thinking that they’re just here to help, then we leave the door wide open for them. They won’t even have to kill us to take over, because we’ll be letting them in with open arms.”

She’d been so hungry her fish was already gone.

“If you’re still hungry, I’ve got apples,” Trent offered. “Let me get you one.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Psyops. What a world.

“Trent,” she called. “What if they really are here to help? The UN?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said. “And I hope to God I don’t see it. They’ll stay far away from Letliv if they know what’s good for them.”

Trent sounded so territorial, so protective of his town.

“Why would it be so bad, to have help come?” she asked.

“They have a long history of taking things over, forcing laws made by unelected authorities on citizens. Yeah, maybe they’d help. But help doesn’t come without a price.”

Clarissa looked at the empty plate, at the shelter he was offering her. “You’re helping me. What price will I have to pay?”

“Shit.” Trent shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

I’ll believe it when I see it.

Clarissa stood and stretched. “Thank you for dinner. Where should I sleep?”

Trent stood too. God, every time he stood near her, her body reacted. Her pulse quickened, her whole body rushing with adrenaline. It wasn’t a particularly bad feeling, just . . . a little scary. He was so much bigger than her.

She’d sleep with her gun by her side as usual tonight. Couldn’t hurt.

“You’ll sleep in my room,” Trent said, “and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I’ll take the couch, it’s fine,” she said.

“A girl like you, you deserve a bed,” he said simply.

“A girl like me,” she repeated.

“I’m being nice, okay? Just . . . please, just agree for once. Take what I’m offering.”

“Okay. Thank you, I mean.” Clarissa swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

Trent nodded. “You don’t have to be sorry. I get it. I’m a threat until proven otherwise.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. He looked . . . hurt. Like he was taking it personally. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Trent put his hands in the air, holding them up as if to show her he meant no harm. “You’re safe here. And the bedroom door . . . it locks from the inside, okay? So you can sleep tonight. And not worry.”

The living room suddenly felt too small for the two of them. He was close, not touching her, no—but the testosterone poured off of him in waves. She could feel it in the air.

Clarissa went into the bedroom and locked the door.

Trent cleared the
dishes and sat back on the couch. It made sense that she’d be wary of him. The fact that he was undeniably attracted to her probably didn’t help.

As much as he tried not to look at Clarissa, whenever she was near him . . . he couldn’t help it. She was so beautiful, with that long red hair, and a fragile appearance that covered the strong woman he knew she was underneath it all.

She couldn’t have survived this long without being strong.

But what about Annie? Even though she was a grown woman now, in his mind his sister was still about, oh, twelve years old, maybe. And annoying the hell out of him by trying to tag along with him and his friends. Trent shook his head.

What was happening to Annie now? Without Clarissa around to protect her, would she be safe?

Tomorrow, they’d start getting their battle plan together. Because the sooner they could move in on Grand Central, the better.

Clarissa woke only
once in the middle of the night—she sat up in the strange bed, her face flushed, her body feeling tingly and . . .

What a dream she’d woken from. God . . . it had seemed so real. Felt real, too. Flashes of the dream caught on the edge of her fuzzy memory. Trent, his shirt off, revealing his broad, muscular chest, lying beside her, stroking her, touching her . . .

Clarissa shook her head, trying to clear her mind. The pillow was cool against her heated flesh. Still, she couldn’t help but think how the man she’d just fantasized about was right outside that bedroom door.

It felt good, in the dream. Really good. Unlike anything she’d experienced on the Tracks or even after, with Roy. It didn’t make sense for her to fantasize about Trent like that, though. Yes, he was handsome. Gorgeous. But she’d been through too much to let herself get attached to a man.

So why am I here, sleeping in his house?

Well.

Clarissa shut her eyes, determined to fall back asleep. She was only staying with Trent because she loved Annie like family, so it made sense for her to want to stay with Annie’s brother.

Yeah, that was true. But it didn’t change the fact that Clarissa had just fantasized about Trent’s hands caressing her naked skin.

She couldn’t fall back asleep without some relief. Her clit felt swollen and needy. The house was silent, the door was locked. Her hand found its way and she shut her eyes, gliding her fingers fast over her bud.

Trent, Trent . . .

She came hard, but didn’t make a sound.

Grand Central Terminal

COLONEL LANCHE

Colonel Lanche zipped
his pants and let the whore from the Tracks leave his office. She scurried out without looking back.

Guess it wasn’t as good for her as it was for him.

“Sir,” Dobson, one of his men, called from the doorway. “Permission to enter, sir?”

“Come in,” Lanche said, waving his hand. “Any news on the boy?”

Evan, the eighteen-year-old runt they’d taken from the domestic terrorist group led by Private Barker and Barker’s whores, hadn’t proven to be cooperative. The kid was tougher than he looked. That wasn’t saying much, since the boy looked like a girl.

“No, sir—but there’s a . . . there’s an ambassador from the United Nations here to see you.”

Lanche’s stomach dropped inside him, and he gripped his desk. “What the fuck? Where?”

“They’ve got a truck, sir. A working truck, and this guy in a blue hat said he needed to speak to the man in charge.”

Holy fucking hell. So it was true. They were taking over.

“A blue hat,” Lanche repeated in disbelief. “Like a pale blue beret? With the UN emblem on it?”

The soldier nodded uncomfortably, shifting his weight.

“Not on my watch,” Lanche growled.

“He won’t go away, sir.”

“I can’t have him coming into the camp, it’s too dangerous. I’ll go out and meet them.”

“Sir.” Dobson took a deep breath, as if he were afraid to argue with him. “We can’t protect you if you’re out there with all their men.”

“How many men?”

“Four I could count, unless they’ve got some hidden in the truck. They say they’ve brought supplies.”

“All right. Bring him and all of his people to me. Search that truck, make sure no one’s hiding.”

Dobson nodded and left.

Lanche smoothed his hair and looked around his office—a room that had once been a storefront on a hallway off the main terminal. The broken glass where his first escapee, Emily Rosen, had thrown herself through, was covered over with plywood.

The blood spot on his carpet where she’d murdered the soldier guarding her had not been so easy to cover up.

Dobson came back with the four UN men, backed up by his soldier Scar. Scar was a good right-hand man in a crisis. Roughed that Evan kid up without thinking twice about it, just because Lanche told him to. He needed more men like Scar.

The men from the United Nations were in military uniforms, with baby blue scarves tucked neatly into the collars. A matching blue patch with that obnoxious world-with-olive-branches logo marked their right shoulders. And they each wore a jauntily placed pale blue beret. At least the berets looked less aggressive than those blue helmets they’d been known to wear. The one in front offered his hand when they walked in.

Lanche stood, not offering a hand in return. Not to these invading motherfuckers.

“How can I help you?” Lanche asked. Might as well get off on the right foot. See what they wanted.

“Very gracious of you, Colonel,” the ambassador said, with a slight foreign accent Lanche couldn’t quite place. “But we are here to help you, to offer our assistance in your time of national crisis.”

Yeah, right. Where were they a year ago, when the power first went out, before everyone started dying?

“Thank you. How many men do you have here, Ambassador?”

“We are four, on a mission to provide aid from the UN,” the man replied, and the other men nodded. “We’ve been brought in to help keep the peace. Our mission here today, however, is to deliver supplies . . . antibiotics, flashlights with batteries, and vitamins for nutrition.”

“All that, huh? And a working truck.” The truck was a goldmine. After the Pulse, most cars had simply stopped working, their electronics fried. Only the very old trucks still worked, and Lanche had already commandeered every one he could find.

“Unfortunately, we will need to take the truck back with us so that we might bring aid to other FEMA camps.”

“Are they expecting you?”

The ambassador paused, as if unsure of the meaning behind the question. “We had no way to inform you of our arrival. Please forgive the unexpected intrusion, I know you are a busy man.”

Lanche turned to Scar and Dobson. “Did you remove their weapons?”

“Yes, sir, per policy,” Scar said, and looked at Lanche with a glint in his eye. That soldier thought the way he did. Good. He’d need backup.

“We’ll take the supplies,” Lanche said. “Can we expect more?”

“Not at this time, Colonel,” the ambassador said. “We have a base of operations—”

“Where?” Lanche interuppted. “The UN building here in Manhattan is empty.”

The UN man smiled thinly. “That is, as you say, classified. Besides, the UN building is not on New York soil. Through a treaty agreement with the US government, technically the building and land are
extraterritorial
.”

“Fuck this.” Lanche unholstered his sidearm and shot the ambassador in the head, between the eyes.

Dobson jumped back in surprise. “Shit!”

“Shut the fuck up and kill the others,” Lanche barked.

But Dobson was frozen. Scar hefted his rifle and shot the other three men. It happened so quickly.

“Good work, Scar,” Lanche said. He’d never bothered to learn his soldier’s real name, since his nickname fit him and his ruined face so very well. “We’ll sleep safer tonight without globalist invaders in our camp.”

“Holy shit,” Dobson whispered. “They were from the UN! They were helping us.”

“Are you that stupid?” Lanche barked. “They would kill us all. Now get rid of these bodies and get some of our guys out there to unload the truck. We need those supplies.”

Scar grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t let those blue-hat fucks take over your camp.”

“Of course not. I have a responsibility to keep everyone here safe. That’s what we did here, Scar. Eliminated a threat.”

“Do you trust the safety of the medicine and vitamins, sir?” Scar asked thoughtfully. “It could be a trap. It’s not like foreigners have never tried to kill American soldiers before.”

“One way to find out. We’ve got a whole bunch of guinea pigs.” Lanche laughed. He felt high on adrenaline after killing men. It was almost better than sex.

“Bring me Annie,” Lanche ordered. “And that little bitch Evan.”

Evan sat back
on the hard orange seats in the subway car he was bunking in with Annie. He was the only male on the Tracks. Other than him, it was all the young, single women.