Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

Tucker snorted. “I guess we know where you rank.”

Billy laughed forcefully and said, “She took me out for a cheeseburger first.” As if this somehow made it okay.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a cheeseburger. Rations vouchers weren’t redeemable at restaurants.

“We were eating when this soldier showed up. A fat guy. I knew what she’d been up to then, so I ran—straight into his partner, who’d been looking for him down around the corner. He was quick for an old guy. Tripped me with his nightstick and smashed the burgers all up. I was so pissed I told him he could go screw himself.”

“Must have been some burger,” said Chase.

“What’d he say?” I prompted.

“He… he told me to play nice.”

A collective silence fell over us. Play nice or we don’t play at all was Wallace’s number one rule. Behind my closed lids I could see the roof of the Wayland Inn crashing down.

“And I said that you don’t get to play nice when you don’t got any food. And then he asked how old I was and I said sixteen, even though I was really just eleven, and where my dad was and I told him that he died in the War. That’s when his partner caught up to us, and before he said a word I hear this bang ! And the fat guy dropped dead. Right there. Right in front of me.”

All the air seemed to suck out of the compartment through the vents. I willed myself not to think of the carrier on Rudy Lane, murdered before us. I willed myself not to think of my mother. Chase had become motionless, and so, surprisingly, had Tucker.

“Wallace killed his partner?” clarified Tucker. “That’s cold.”

“He had it coming,” said Billy. “That’s what Wallace said.”

I looked across at Tucker, staring at Chase, who was staring back. I shifted. “Wallace and Riggins and… the rest of ’em, they’re probably already on their way to the safe house. Wallace always said that was the plan.” Billy’s voice cracked.

The heaviness in the compartment increased. I rubbed my chest with the heel of my hand but the tightness would not loosen.

Lincoln was dead. I could see him perfectly. Tall and wiry. Black freckles. I wondered how Houston was taking it; I’d never seen them apart. I wondered if Houston was even alive.

Wallace. Riggins. The brothers. All the guys who risked their lives and came home to play poker. Burned to ashes. Burned in a motel-sized crematorium.

“People do stupid things when they’re desperate,” I told Billy quietly. He was hunched over, digging into the crate between his calves.

“She wasn’t stupid,” he said. “You don’t know anything about her.”

Billy had never talked to me like that before.

“I didn’t mean…”

“She always got what she wanted. Always.”

I swallowed, the revolt churning inside of me. Clearly this wasn’t the first time Billy’s mom had “turned him in.” Wallace was more than family to Billy. Wallace had saved his life. Or maybe they had both saved each other.

“I just wish my cat didn’t have to die, you know?” he said, by way of an apology.

The truck turned, and we all held on until it was righted. The pace picked up. The whir of the tires on the road made it hard to concentrate on anything but the danger outside.

“We’re getting on the highway,” said Chase.

When Billy’s head fell, I placed my arm over his shoulders. Tentatively, like I’d once seen Wallace do. Billy didn’t make a sound. I think I was the only one who knew he was crying.

THEminutes passed, each lacing my muscles more tightly together. It was exhausting to be so on-edge, so powerless.

In the dim glow of the flashlight I could see the shadowed outlines of my companions. Billy, curled into a ball on the floor, fast asleep. Chase, hunched over his knees. Tucker, shifting positions every few minutes, unable to sit still. Which was more dangerous? The killer inside this box, or outside?

A half hour passed and my neck began to cramp. I rolled my head on my shoulders. We ran out of water, and the friction inside my throat felt like sandpaper.

An hour. No one wanted to jinx us, but collectively we’d begun thinking we might be in the clear after all.

As my breathing grew less shallow, I became excruciatingly aware of the sharp scents of sweat and blood and heavy smoke that filled the truck. With such little ventilation, the stifling air made me nauseous. I leaned against the cool metal walls, letting the reverberations from the road rattle my bones.

A plan began to take shape. Tubman would meet us at the checkpoint, but we weren’t going to the safe house. Rebecca was still somewhere in Chicago and I couldn’t rest until she was found. I wasn’t sure how Chase was going to take the news, but he wouldn’t be able to change my mind. He, of all people, knew the importance of keeping promises. He’d promised my mother he’d find me, after all.

I stared at Tucker, wondering what he would do. He’d fooled the others; he wasn’t the dream recruit Wallace and Sean had talked about. I couldn’t imagine him fighting against the precious organization he’d been so proud to be a part of. No, he was only out for himself, to progress in rank, to shoot down anyone who got in his way, and it seemed a terrible mistake to give him the location of the safe house.

And yet I kept seeing him on the third floor of the Wayland Inn, surrounded by smoke, desperately attempting to rescue an unconscious Sean. As much as I tried, I could not think of a reason why he would start a fire and then stay in the building, why he would risk his own life to make others believe he was good. It left only the possibility that he was absolutely insane—which I hadn’t yet ruled out—or that he had changed.

The box containing us seemed to tighten.

He shifted positions, and in the low light I caught the reflection of metal. I straightened and grabbed the flashlight to shine in his direction. In his hand was a small red pocketknife; he’d already succeeded in sawing his cast halfway off.

My stomach turned. Freed from that cast, he’d have full use of both hands and would be even more dangerous.

“Shouldn’t you leave that on?” I asked flatly. “See a doctor or something.”

“She’s right,” said Chase. “You only need one arm to stab me in the back.”

Tucker shook his head. I thought I could hear him chuckling.

“It’s sweet you two are worried.” He didn’t even look up.

“Oh, I’m worried,” I said between my teeth.

The tires continued their consistent rotation on the highway.

“Don’t be,” said Tucker. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.” He cast a languid but deliberate look my way. For an instant I saw my own hatred mirrored back at me. I saw how Tucker blamed me for ruining his career and his life. And then the look was gone. The cast came off with a tear, and he groaned in relief, scratching one forearm, then the other.

“You, on the other hand, are off to Chicago, I hear,” he said.

“Maybe I am,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

I could feel Chase’s eyes boring a hole through me, but didn’t dare look away from Tucker. He leaned back against the ribbed metal siding, as though it were as comfortable as a couch.

“Your pal Sean told me. You’re lucky to have such good friends. Especially considering that reward on your life.”

Riggins flashed again in my mind and brought with him a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t protected me because we were friends, but because he thought I was the sniper.

I hadn’t noticed that I’d moved to the edge of my seat until Chase placed his left hand on my knee, and when he felt the energy making my leg tremble, he spread his fingers and pressed down, holding me in place.