Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

Sean was out of the car first. Tucker followed, and then Chase and I were alone. He stayed in the front seat and kept his head down, so as not to attract the attention of the passersby. We hadn’t said good-bye and we wouldn’t now.

I pulled off the gold band he’d stolen from the Loftons’ and reached for his hand, pushing it onto his pinky finger. His fist began to shake as soon as I let it go.

“Thirty minutes,” he said. “And then I’m coming in.”

I nodded and stepped outside, knowing I would rather die than have Chase follow me into that building.

I WENTover the plan in my head as we walked up to the entrance. Most of it relied on Tucker. It still seemed beyond surreal that I was putting my life in the hands of my mother’s murderer. I reminded myself that he’d helped us out of the fire at the Wayland Inn. That he’d stayed to evacuate the tunnels, and seemed almost human when he’d told me about his family.

He hasn’t killed me so far, I told myself. But it was small consolation.

There was a glass-covered posting of the Statutes near the entrance, but I couldn’t see the five most wanted in conjunction with the sniper shootings. Maybe the FBR still thought that Ember Miller had died two days ago in Greeneville. Still, I kept my head bowed, just in case.

Tucker walked straight up to the front door and pulled it open, allowing me to step into a brightly lit lobby with a black-and-white checkered floor. A Sister of Salvation sat behind a glass window, smiling in a plastic way. She had a broad forehead and flat hair, pulled back in a pencil-thin braid. By the time we reached her, my nerves had settled into that same eerie calm I remembered from my escape from the base. I was glad for it. I needed a clear head now.

“Welcome to Horizons Physical Rehabilitation. How may I help you?” she chimed.

“Patient transfer,” said Tucker.

“I’ll need a copy of your orders, please.” She reached her hand under the bottom of the glass expectantly.

My fists clenched. Tucker hadn’t said we’d need paperwork.

“Is Sprewell here?” Tucker asked irritably, as though he couldn’t be bothered with this girl and her silly rules. I wasn’t entirely sure the sentiment wasn’t genuine.

“Um… yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her mouth now drawn tight at the corners.

“We’ll wait.”

He stared at her until she stood up and walked away.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” I whispered.

“Not now,” snapped Sean. Tucker smirked.

The Sister returned and sat back down. “Sergeant Sprewell will be with you in just a moment.”

“Thank you,” said Tucker, not particularly kindly.

Church of America music was piped in through the speakers. The soprano singing struck a note that gave me the chills. I nursed my sore wrist and tried to focus on relaxing the bundled muscles in my neck, but the Sister kept staring at me.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” she finally asked.

I dropped my chin and looked away. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” she said. “I recognize your face….”

For several blank seconds the words caught in my throat and I seriously contemplated running. Then I remembered what Beth had said about the arrival of the Sisters in Louisville.

“Dallas,” I said. “I trained at the center in Dallas.”

“That’s it,” she said. “I trained there, too.” She smiled again, in her hollow way.

An atrocious buzzer sounded and I jumped to attention. A moment later, a ruddy-faced guard with beady eyes—SPREWELL, according to his name badge—pushed through the locked door on the left side of the check-in window.

His eyes drew to me first, with a look so slimy I felt the need to take a shower. I instantly despised him.

“Still guarding cripples, huh, Sprewell?” chided Tucker.

I bristled at the word cripple, thinking of the Chicago fighter that Mags had shot. Then I held my breath, praying that Tucker hadn’t been too bold. Thankfully the guard recognized him and laughed.

“Miss me that much, Morris?”

Something in his mannerisms reminded me of how Tucker had been at the Knoxville base. Cocky. Too clever for his own good.

He shook Tucker’s hand, and Tucker smiled, like he belonged in this world. I shifted, moving closer to Sean and the handgun in his belt.

“What brings you back this way?” asked Sprewell.

“Transfer. The Sisters put in a request to bring one of your girls to their order in Knoxville.”

“So that’s why you’re in mixed company.” The guard’s brows went flat with indifference. “Any gimp in particular?”

“Her name is Rebecca Lansing,” said Sean, sweat beading on his forehead.

I tensed. My heart hammered against my ribcage.

Sprewell’s chin lifted. “This a pal of yours, Morris?”

I was done talking to Sprewell. I wanted to see Rebecca now .

“Ms. Lansing is to set an example for the other Sisters,” I said. “To steer them away from a life of sin.”

Truck had said this is what they’d done to that poor Chicago soldier with the broken neck. Toured him around the base. I hoped it wasn’t too unreasonable that the Sisters of Salvation would do the same thing.

Sprewell glanced at Tucker, as if to verify that I’d spoken out of turn. I hid the irritated sigh that threatened to sneak out. It seemed men could only address men these days.

“They’re a little bold down south, aren’t they, Morris?” he said with a ghost of a smile. “The ones here are… what’s it called… like those bugs that don’t have any male or female parts. Asexual, that’s it.”

“We are on a time crunch, Sprewell,” said Tucker.

He sighed. “Fine, all right. Come on back and we’ll run your IDs.”

The three of us froze, refusing to look at one another. Had Tucker forgotten this crucial step? Was this an accidental omission, or a deliberate one? I looked out the front window, seeing the van still parked on the curb. There was still a chance to run for it.

But I couldn’t run. Any doubt that Rebecca was here had been erased. Anyway, I wouldn’t make it ten feet before Sprewell had shot me in the back.

I followed the boys through the locked entry. There was no turning back now.

ONthe opposite side of the door was a long counter, where a Sister sat beside a young soldier doing paperwork. He had a strained look on his face, and averted his eyes from Sprewell, out of fear or aversion, I didn’t know.

“ID checks,” said Tucker, trying to sound casual. “That’s new since I trained here.”

“Is it?” asked Sprewell, but he wasn’t particularly interested.

“Name?” asked the soldier behind the desk. He pushed nervously at his dirty blond hair as though he was used to it being longer than the short soldier’s clip. It was a move that reminded me of Billy. It made him seem younger, and elicited a pang of worry for my friend.

Sean hesitated.

“Randolph. James,” he lied. I shot him a quick glance and then looked away. Randolph had been another guard at the reformatory. One I didn’t regard fondly.

“Where are your name badges?” asked Sprewell skeptically. “That’s a disciplinary action if your CO finds out.”

My hands fisted.

“Not today,” lied Tucker. “Cleaning Services lost them.”

Sprewell snorted. “Women.”

“Come on,” said Tucker. “You know me, that’s ID check enough. Let me get this girl so we can get back on the road.”

The soldier was still searching the mainframe for Sean’s alias.

“Yeah, fine. Having a tough time, New Guy?” chided Sprewell, then snorted. “Harper couldn’t count to ten with his shoes off.”