Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“It’s a trap,” Sean said. “Think about it. Why else would a checkpoint in her name come up now, while the Bureau’s hunting for the sniper? They’re baiting you.”

My heart sank like a stone. Sean’s assessment seemed far more likely than the alternative that my mother was actually alive.

“The Chicago carrier had us look up the name and address a week ago. Before they framed you,” said Polo. “The mainframe does say that Lori Whittman’s deceased,” he added, looking sorry.

“But it says that about Chase, too,” said Billy helpfully. “I checked.”

“Are you sure she was dead?” I asked, but my words were so quiet that no one heard me. I repeated myself.

“Yes,” Chase said. “I saw her die.”

“But you got in a fight with Tucker, right? You told me you don’t remember what happened.”

“Whoa,” I heard Billy say.

“Someone hit me,” Chase admitted. “I woke up in a holding cell.” His hands hung slack at his sides. His shoulders bowed. He looked like an old man, and for the first time since before her death, I wanted to comfort him .

Marco, Polo, and Billy were glancing back and forth between us.

“Maybe she was just hurt,” I said. “Maybe…” I covered my mouth again. Don’t hope don’t hope don’t hope.

“I guess there’s only one person that knows for sure,” said Sean cautiously.

Chase was far away. My insides, when I could feel them again, were tight as a drum. I whispered his name, needing him to come back.

He looked up, remembering the rest of the room. He coughed. “Right. Tucker.”

“And I told him to leave,” finished Sean.

Chase spun on him. “What?”

“How was I supposed to sit here with him knowing…” Sean looked away, like he was afraid of upsetting me again. “Cara was leaving for her cousin’s anyway, so he went with her.”

My heart rate kicked up a notch. What had Sean done? At the worst, he’d given Tucker an out to go straight to the MM. At best, Cara and Tucker would be out in the community, close to curfew, attracting a lot of attention as an unwed couple. One glance at Chase and I could tell he was thinking the same.

“When? When did they go?” I asked.

“I don’t know… twenty minutes maybe,” said Polo. “Marco and I were still looking for the address the carrier left.”

Chase’s hand gripped mine so hard I winced.

“We need to leave,” he said urgently. “We all need to get out. He’s turning us in.”

“Hold up, big guy,” said Polo. “Who’s turning us in?”

Chase zeroed in on Sean. “We have to risk the roads tonight.”

Sean gave him a sober nod and left the office.

“What about the safe house?” Billy said. “Wallace said…”

But Chase was already following Sean toward the truck. I snagged his sleeve as he barreled past.

“I have to go,” I said.

“I know. We are.” Chase’s tone was clipped.

“I have to go home .”

His eyes brightened with caution. Hands on my shoulders, he leaned down to make sure I understood his next words.

“Em, she’s gone. I know what I saw.” He stopped when he registered the determination on my face. “What if Sean’s right, and it is a trap?” He sounded frightened. Not of the MM, but of what he might find. Of hoping, just like me, that she was alive.

“I have to know,” I said.

He glanced over my shoulder, staring at nothing. Then, with a short, muttered curse, he swung back into the office.

Marco and Polo had already set out water and food for our trip, and Sean was preparing to load it in the back of the truck. I raced to help him, finding Cara’s folded Sisters of Salvation uniform on one of the dismantled crates.

I broached the silence. “We have to make a detour.”

To my relief, he only sighed and said, “I figured.”

Low voices rumbled within the office, and then I heard Billy’s cracking voice yell, “You’re doing what ?”

“Oh no.” I reached the threshold just in time to see Polo place a set of car keys in Chase’s open palm.

“You’re going to get caught.” Billy’s face had gone ashy.

“Our shift is up at eight A.M.,” said Polo. “That’s when we’re reporting it stolen.”

“Unless you get caught before then, in which case we’re reporting it stolen early,” added Marco. “You’re all right, Jennings, but a lot of people count on us working this angle.”

“Thanks,” said Chase.

“Don’t thank us yet,” said Marco reluctantly.

The adrenaline was already kicking through my veins. The only vehicles that couldn’t be caught breaking curfew were the ones enforcing it. FBR cruisers. Like the one we were about to steal.

Still reeling from our whirlwind plan, I turned to Billy. “You’ll come with us, right?”

He pulled a string from the frayed hem of his shirt, frowning.

Chase put his hand on my arm, as if suspecting I might try to drag him with us.

“What’s it going to be, Billy? It’s your call,” he said.

I held my breath. Please come with us. I felt a gnawing inside of me, like I had in the days after they’d arrested my mother. I didn’t want to let Billy out of my sight.

Billy swallowed audibly, shoving his mop of dark hair out of his eyes. He transferred his weight from foot to foot. Chase was right, it was important that Billy make this choice for himself. He hadn’t gotten a say before.

“I’m waiting for the carrier,” he said at last. “Wallace is going to meet me at the safe house.”

Silence seeped across the room. No one knew how to say the words Billy would never believe, not unless he saw it for himself.

Wallace is dead.

“If Tucker brings back soldiers…” I couldn’t finish.

“We’ll take care of it,” said Polo. Beside him, Marco nodded.

Something pinched deep inside of me. If we didn’t deliver Billy all the way to South Carolina, we’d let Wallace down, but short of forcing him into the cruiser, there was nothing we could do. Decisions had to be made, and quickly. I grabbed him then, squeezing him tightly, despite his awkward, adolescent stance, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Billy. I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

He blinked rapidly and muttered a good-bye under his breath.

In less than ten minutes we were ready. Outside the loading dock was a single gas pump, meant for the delivery trucks on their distribution routes, and Marco filled three red plastic canisters with fuel so that we wouldn’t have to stop in public. The cruiser was parked in a single parking spot beside the building’s generator, just beside the high chain-link fence that surrounded the plant. When he placed the sloshing drums in the trunk I had the fleeting fear that hauling around that much gasoline was dangerous, but figured combustion was the least of our concerns.

With Chase and Sean in borrowed uniforms, and me in the Sisters of Salvation skirt and blouse that Cara had abandoned, we rolled down the ramp onto the highway and gunned it home.

WE watched the images on the television, horrified. The ground was crowded with hunks of concrete and fallen streetlamps. The dust was powdered chalk, thick as fog. People, coated in white, ran from it, screaming, coughing, like it was a living creature chasing after them, not another building crashing to the ground. Our living room crackled with static.

The camera shook. The guy taping the scene was running. And then the screen went black and returned to the newsroom.

Chicago had been bombed. Like Baltimore and San Francisco. Washington and New York. But so much closer.