Three (Article 5) (27 page)

An hour passed before they arrived. Three women, all dressed in Sisters of Salvation uniforms. The oldest had to be in her seventies; her silver hair was pinned back, and her skirt was pulled up just below her bra. The youngest would have been my mother’s age. She was pretty, but had a sour look on her face, and tried to hide the gun in her waistband with an oversized blouse. The third looked too polished to be a Sister; her raven hair hung in short, neat curls around her high cheekbones. She held a notepad and a pencil in one hand, and made me nervous.

“Three of you,” said the old woman. “Three of us. Quite a coincidence.”

“There’s no coincidence,” said Jesse, and I winced, thinking that Billy would have made four. The woman nodded.

“You’ll forgive us for not bringing you home to the roost,” said the old woman, holding Chase’s hand while she spoke. “Given the circumstances with the other posts, we’d rather not risk discovery.” Her voice was brittle, but her back was ramrod straight.

“We understand,” said Chase.

The woman with the notepad raised her brows at me. “I have to admit, I never thought I’d see you two alive.” There was something familiar about her voice, the way she articulated every single word. The muscles in my shoulders tensed.

“Faye,” warned the sour-faced woman.

“You have powerful friends,” she said, tapping her pencil on the paper.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I asked.

“Faye Brown,” she answered with a little smirk.

“AKA Felicity Bridewell,” said Sour Face.

“The reporter,” I recognized, and felt my lips draw back. “You reported on Truck’s execution.”

“And my AWOL,” said Chase. “You almost got us arrested.”

The farmhouse with the barred windows. The stolen bike. Our escape in the middle of the night. The memories were all too clear.

“No,” she said. “
You
almost got you arrested. I just made you famous for it.”

I took a step closer. “What are you doing here?” I looked to the old woman. “What’s she doing here?” It occurred to me too late that this might be a bust. I stopped short and glanced back at the truck.

“Didn’t know you’d have such high-priority visitors, did you Jane?” Felicity—or Faye, whatever her name was—asked the old woman.

“Felicity’s with us.” Jane frowned. “She’s also employed by the FBR as a newscaster.”

She may have been working both sides, but that didn’t ease my mind as it had with Marco and Polo. She’d done a lot of damage with her words.

“While we’re making introductions, this is Ember Miller and Chase Jennings,” Felicity announced. “AWOL and…” She tapped her lip with the pencil. “Reform school runaway turned sniper, am I right? You two are still big news in this region. Congratulations.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Haven’t been in the game too long, have you?” she surmised, writing something on her notepad. Before thinking twice I’d slapped it out of her hand. The pencil rolled across the ground and she stopped it with her foot and bent slowly to retrieve it. Behind me, Jesse chuckled.

“We were nearly killed because of your reports,” I snapped.

“Look,” she said. “I just read what comes across my desk. It’s nothing personal.”

“Maybe you could report something worthwhile,” I said. “What the Bureau’s doing to the Article violators, or their own soldiers that go AWOL. Those would be real stories.”

“I’d be dead in five minutes,” she retorted. “And then who would give you your precious intel?”

“Ease up,” said Jane to the reporter. She looked to me with apology in her eyes. “Faye’s provided your organization with a lot of Bureau secrets over the years.”

“By way of Truck,” said Sour Face. “God rest his soul.”

Felicity dropped her injured expression at the mention of his name.

“Look,” she said, her tone not quite so biting. “I’m one of a handful of female reporters left in the country. The
entire
country. The FBR is not exactly the most inclusive workplace for women.” She inhaled through her nostrils. “I’m only there because they need to appeal to the illusion that they’re still looking out for everyone’s best interests. Felicity Bridewell: the token girl. If they knew I was here, I’d be no better off than you two.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” I said.

“Heard anything interesting lately?” Jesse asked Felicity.

“That depends,” she answered, chin lifted. “You don’t get yours until I get mine. That’s the way I work.”

Jesse smirked. “I bet it is.”

“What do you want?” asked Chase. She turned to him, but wilted under his intimidating glare.

“A ride to the safe house,” she said. “Since his assassination attempt, Chancellor Reinhardt’s been on a witch hunt. Anyone with field connections is being brought in for
questioning
.” She air-quoted the word. “Things are getting a little too hot here for my taste.”

“A ride to the safe house,” I said. “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

She narrowed her gaze. “And yet somehow I’m not convinced.”

“It’s gone,” said Chase bluntly.

“Gone?” said Sour Face. “What do you mean
gone
?”

Jane crossed herself and muttered a quiet prayer.

Felicity paled, but gained composure quickly. “What happened to it?”

“The FBR flattened it. I guess that didn’t come across your desk,” said Chase.

The look on her face indicated that it had not.

“Where am I supposed to go now?” she asked, more annoyed than afraid. Even if the soldiers at the old president’s hideout hadn’t explicitly told us not to direct anyone else that way, I wasn’t sure I would tell this woman about it.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “The same place any of us are supposed to go.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” she said.

“You’ll lay low with us until this clears,” said Jane.

Felicity’s mouth had pulled tight, and she gave one curt nod. “There’s an informant that’s been turned by the FBR. He’s feeding the locations of the posts to the FBR. He’s got some sort of deal worked out with Reinhardt.”

“What kind of deal?” asked Jesse.

“I don’t know,” said Felicity. “No one knows his name or location. He talks directly with the chief on a private radio frequency.”

“No one has seen him?” asked Chase.

“No one I know,” she said.

This wasn’t new news; we knew someone was selling out the resistance. The only thing that had changed was that we now knew whoever it was had connections with Reinhardt.

“That’s all I’ve got,” said Felicity. She paused, and then looked at Jesse. “I hope Three’s planning on making the Bureau pay for this.”

I didn’t like the woman, but on some level I understood her. She was risking a lot with no way out.

As the sun peeked through the concrete pylons, we told them that Three planned to attack Reinhardt’s party in Charlotte. I removed a Statute from the boxes designated for this post that Jesse had begun to unload and gave it to Jane.

“Three can’t fight the FBR alone,” I said. “We need help. If everyone stood together, they’d have to listen.”

Jane rubbed the heel of her hand over her collarbone.

“This town is afraid,” she said. “Last year the Blues came through on one of their census runs and tore this place apart. There’s not many still here that would even consider fighting back.”

“Maybe they just need a little motivation,” suggested Jesse. My mind flashed to the cemetery and the soldier in the cage, and I wondered morbidly if he’d helped provide some motivation there, too.

Felicity’s brows lifted, and I wasn’t the only one who saw her gaze drift down to his grinning mouth.

“We’ll do what we can with these Statutes,” said Sour Face. “There’s another printing press in Dalton. We’ve got a source inside that might be willing to double your efforts. I suggest you make that your next stop.”

My heart lifted. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said.

*   *   *

THAT
night we stayed at a checkpoint within the city. An old abandoned apartment in a rough neighborhood, where the growls of stray dogs and the drunken laughter from the drug houses penetrated the plastic covering the windows. In the living room was a metal trash can where a fire had been lit, and Chase and I gathered around it, neither of us mentioning the difference between this night and the last.

Jesse came into the room after dark, pulling the hood of a sweatshirt over his head.

“I’m going out,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Uh…” Jesse smirked. “To visit a friend.”

“A friend you made earlier today?” asked Chase flatly, and I remembered the way Felicity had looked at him in the garage.

“We should stay together,” I said.

“You’re welcome to come,” offered Jesse, spreading his arms wide. When I rolled my eyes, he shrugged. “Your call, neighbor. I’ll be back before dawn.”

“Fine,” I said.

Chase and I sat and ate with a few more people awaiting a transport that might never come. After dark I told them about reform school, and then Chase and I recounted the story of our escape from the Knoxville base. It sounded different than it ever had before that night. There was a layer of separation that hadn’t been there before, as if we were talking about two other people entirely.

I fell asleep leaning against the wall, on a crinkly trash bag that separated my thin layer of clothes from the dirty, shredded carpet. I didn’t stay out long. Sometime in the middle of the night I woke to find Jesse kneeling before a still sleeping Chase. As I watched, Jesse adjusted the tattered blanket that had fallen off his nephew’s shoulder. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. Then his head bowed, and he scraped a hand over his skull.

I didn’t know what he was doing, but it seemed kind, and for some reason that made me nervous.

“How was your date?” I whispered. Chase stretched his long arms overhead.

Jesse’s head lifted.

“It’s time to go,” he said.

We followed him around the block to where a large city trash truck was parked. It stunk, even from a distance, and when I saw the man outside leaning against the door, I stopped.

“Where’s the truck?” asked Chase.

“Traded it to the ladies,” said Jesse. “Meet August. He’s our new set of wheels.”

August smiled, revealing a couple of crooked teeth. He was average height, not heavy, but not too lean. His hair was thin up top and he stood a little hunched over. It occurred to me that he had no distinguishing features; I’d probably never give him a second look if I didn’t know him.

“You’re a carrier?” I asked. He nodded. A closer view revealed his gray city worker’s uniform. “And the Statutes?” The women in Chattanooga had only taken a third of the boxes.

“Already loaded up.” August motioned to a ladder alongside the green metal Dumpster. “You’ll have more air in the bucket at the top. Sorry about the smell, but at least I don’t get searched a lot.”

My stomach churned.

“You’ve been busy,” I told Jesse. He looked surprised that I had expected any differently.

Chase snorted.

The three of us climbed into the bucket and laid across the dirty steel. It didn’t even smell that bad once we started moving, and we had a great view of the sunrise.

We stayed in Dalton, Georgia, for no longer than it took to pass along the Statutes. The man who worked there said he knew some other printers in the North who would also be willing to support the cause, and would pass along the message as soon as he could. I couldn’t help but feel the glimmer of excitement growing within me. This was actually working.

We stopped to stretch our legs and practice fighting. Chase was perfectly willing to spar, especially when we ended up tangled on the ground, but was more wary of helping me work the handgun, another side effect of Harper’s death. Jesse took over, teaching me to take it apart, clean the small pieces, and put it back together. By the end of our first session I could load a cartridge and switch off the safety gage by feel. It wasn’t a skill I was particularly glad to have, but it was a necessary one, all the same.

Calhoun. Rome. A roadblock sent us on a detour through Fort Payne, and we spent the night in Gadsden with some Sisters running a safe house for reform school runaways. By then word of our trip had gotten out and we met carriers who drove as far as Columbus, Ohio, and Northern Texas, all willing to spread the word about the Statutes.

Taking the back roads took time, and ten days after we’d left Endurance, we reached Birmingham. Like most of the others, they were cagey, but when they’d heard our report, and seen that we’d come to deliver the Statutes personally, they held a potluck dinner at the refectory of an old church. Some of the men even cleaned out the bucket atop of the trash truck for us.

We reached the outskirts of Atlanta at dusk the next day, and spent the night under the stars at an old rest stop. The next morning we entered the city, Chase and Jesse dressed as soldiers, me in my Sisters of Salvation uniform. Despite the MM’s heavy presence there, our spirits were high. The carrier, August, drove us right downtown, where we were released outside an old theater near a large factory. It must have been doing well enough; half a dozen civilian cars were pulling into its parking lot. We tried to play it cool, but so many potential witnesses made me nervous.

We entered through the back doors and found ourselves on a wooden stage, a heavy burgundy curtain marred by moth holes sweeping at an angle from the ceiling. The auditorium was silent, rows of dusty red velvet seats empty and broken, and the air was cold and stale. I shivered. It felt like we were preparing to give a performance to ghosts.

Hard-soled boots clicked across the stage, and the curtain was pulled back to reveal a man in clean slacks and a button-down shirt with a snow-white, handlebar moustache. I stood back reluctantly; he didn’t look like resistance.

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen you, August,” said the man to the carrier as they shook hands. He had a thick, buttery accent.

“Stopped up,” said August bluntly. “These folks, they’ll tell you more.”

None of us spoke.

The man smiled. “Let me guess, I’m not what you expected?”