Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“She’s luckier than you’ll be,” said Chase.

Tucker’s teeth flashed in a quick smile. “Come on,” he said. “I think you can cut me a break. After everything we’ve shared.”

My eyes widened as Tucker’s gaze lowered over me. The memory of kissing him in the Knoxville detention cells, trading my integrity for information, was sticky and sour in the back of my mouth. “God, I wish Jennings could have seen that,” he’d said. “We wouldn’t even have to kill him. He’d off himself.”

Chase’s hand gripped my leg so hard I nearly winced.

“You’ve shared nothing,” I said, fury making my voice shake.

And then I turned to Chase and kissed him.

His mouth wasn’t soft, as it usually was, or even heated and demanding, like the night we’d clung to each other. His lips parted in surprise, but he barely responded, not even to touch me.

I grasped his face in my hands and kissed him again, keeping my eyes tightly closed, all but bruising our lips. I couldn’t stand his confusion, or the grim realization that followed as he tightened his jaw. All I wanted was for Tucker to know that Chase was mine, and that nothing, not even my mother’s killer, could tear us apart.

His hands cupped mine. Slowly, he pulled back. A sideways glance revealed that Tucker wasn’t even looking; he was back to digging through the whiskey crates.

My whole body heated in a sick, ugly way, and the space between Chase and me suddenly seemed too close. I looked down before he could say anything. I wished I could disappear.

Tucker had kissed me to hurt Chase, and now I’d done the same to hurt Tucker. I’d wanted us to have nothing in common, and yet, here we were.

“Em…” But before Chase could finish the truck shifted gears. I braced myself on my crated seat.

“Are we there?” Billy rolled to his knees, the motion having woken him. His cough was like the crackling of dry leaves—we hadn’t had water in a long time.

“The coast is four hundred miles away,” said Chase. “We’ve got a few more hours at least.” He clicked off the flashlight, bathing the compartment in darkness.

“We’re stopping,” I said. I could feel the steady pull of the breaks. A cold line of sweat dribbled between my shoulder blades.

“Someone’s following us.” Billy’s voice was ripe with fear.

“Might just be giving us a break,” said Tucker, but he didn’t sound hopeful.

“Ember, take Billy to the back,” murmured Chase.

My place was beside him, but if I didn’t hide, neither would Billy. I reached for his hand and pulled him up. As the truck ground down to a lower gear, I sank low behind a row of boxes, skin prickling with a familiar sensation that I hadn’t felt since the holding cells. The detached insight that I might very soon be dead.

Before Billy knelt beside me, I heard Chase tell him something. Their voices mixed with the hum of the motor and I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but soon Billy nodded and handed Chase his gun.

“Don’t be scared,” Billy said tremulously when he melted into the shadows beside me. “I’m gonna protect you.”

I stared at Chase’s back, a sharp ache tearing through me.

The truck came to a stop.

Tucker and Chase had positioned themselves side by side at the exit. They seemed to be having some unspoken conversation that hadn’t yet evolved to manslaughter.

Please let us live through this, I thought.

Chase chambered the cartridge on the 9mm. Tucker lifted a bottle over his shoulder.

“Nine to twelve,” said Chase.

“Check. Twelve to three,” answered Tucker grimly. “Just like the good old days.”

“What are they talking about?” I whispered. The adrenaline pounded in my ears.

The bottle Billy was holding scraped against the metal floor as he shifted closer.

“Chase’ll take out anyone on the left side, Tucker anyone on the right,” he said. “Wallace taught me that. It’s like numbers on a clock.”

So they were partners again. I closed my eyes and listened, praying that Tucker would keep his word.

A knock on the side of the truck nearly made me scream. Billy grabbed my arm and pulled me back down, but my muscles quivered. We couldn’t run. We were trapped.

Chase . We couldn’t end like this. We needed more time.

Male voices outside the truck. I strained my ears, but the words were muffled, like we were underwater.

Someone knocked on the sliding metal door at the rear of the compartment, where Chase aimed the gun down on whoever waited outside. Tucker angled his body so that his back was to his partner.

“I’m opening the back,” came an intentional call from Sean outside. “If one of you shoots me I’m not going to be happy.”

I sobbed with relief, but covered my mouth. We weren’t in the clear yet.

The back latch of the door squealed as it was unlocked. As Sean opened the gate, a slice of florescent light highlighted the bottom of the cab. He stumbled back.

“What a way to greet a guy,” he said, coughing to hide the hitch in his voice.

Neither Chase nor Tucker lowered their weapons. There, behind Sean, waited two uniformed soldiers; one African American with buggy eyes, the other pale with a hooked nose, balding prematurely. Both were in their late twenties and in good shape, and neither reached for the firearms holstered in their belts.

“Look.” Billy pointed to the neatly painted sign on the back wall of what appeared to be a printing factory of some kind. One Whole Family.

Resistance.

“THEY’REthe good guys,” assured Sean.

Slowly, Chase brought the gun down. He and Tucker jumped to the concrete floor and did a quick search before the rest of us followed.

“Welcome to Greeneville,” said the man with dark skin. “Or what’s left of it anyway. I’m Marco, and this is my esteemed colleague, Polo.”

I scoffed, noticing that their name badges had been removed.

Some of the boys at the Wayland Inn had talked about Greeneville. As with most of the smaller U.S. cities, the town’s population had dwindled during the War—no jobs. People had forsaken their homes for the larger cities where they could at least access resources like soup kitchens.

As I looked around I found my earlier assessment had been correct. We’d been brought in through the loading docks to a factory floor, where several monstrous silver machines waited, dormant. A black rubber belt stuck out like a tongue from a gaping hole in the machine on the left, and upon it at even intervals rested neat stacks of paper, waiting to be loaded into various sized boxes near where we’d parked.

“The lovely Sister has informed us that y’all are taking the Tubman express to the safe house,” said Polo. “Feel free to use the amenities, grab a delightful Horizons bottled water, and make yourself at home.”

“Such hosts.” Cara winked at Marco as she slid by them into a small office where the water was located. Polo whistled, an appreciative gaze trailing after her.

“How long until the carrier returns?” asked Chase.

Marco’s shoulders fell. “They’re in such a hurry to leave, Polo.”

Polo nodded somberly. “Is it me? Am I unlikeable, Marco?”

“You do smell a bit…”

“Later today?” Chase pressed.

“Oh no.” Marco shook his head. “He was just through. Tomorrow morning at the earliest. Besides, you can’t make it across the Red Zone border before curfew. Such an attempt would mean certain death.”

“So dramatic,” chided Polo.

Chase and I shared a glance; we’d tried to cross into a Red Zone once, and nearly been arrested. If not for Chase’s smooth talking, we might not have made it through.