Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“I’ll go.”

I turned sharply to find Tucker Morris. His face, cast downward, was stripped of all emotion.

“I don’t know all your bases, but I know where the FBR will be. I can keep us off their radar.”

I had to remind myself that he’d proven his loyalties.

Chase said nothing, but the corner of his eye twitched. He hadn’t said it, but I knew he wanted to stay and look for signs of his uncle.

If he was staying, I was staying.

Truck’s team left without hesitation, promising to return as soon as they’d found a safe place for us to hide. Tucker and I did not say good-bye, and as I watched his back as he disappeared through the tall grass, it occurred to me that I should have felt relieved to finally be rid of him, but maybe there was no room left for such a thing.

The rest of us drew what weapons we had, and sorted through the smoke and the wood and the glass. We overturned doors and crumbled stones and pieces of drywall. And we found bodies. Burned to black. Burned so badly, you couldn’t even tell they were human.

Someone who knew of this place had done this. Had pointed the MM in the right direction, had sent those long-distance explosive devices flying through the air, and killed our families and friends. Our chance at peace.

At dawn, Jack pointed out the ruins of a house that had days ago served as a medical clinic. Chase threw himself into excavating it, so savagely that his arms bled and his shirt soaked through with the same salty sweat that hid any tears that dared escape.

His uncle is dead, I thought as I watched. I am all he has left. And though I knew this feeling intimately, my heart broke for him.

I stumbled away, winding around the littered trinkets of an old souvenir shop, ears perked to the skies like in the old days when we’d watched the planes. I thought of Sarah, pregnant and scared when her life had been cut short. Of Rebecca, who could barely walk on cement, much less an uneven sandy floor, and Truck’s words in the tunnel: What were we supposed to do with him once we got him out? We can’t support that kind of care down here. Of Sean, who would never leave her side again.

I was secretly glad my mother had never made it to this doomed place.

Snow globes were broken across the ground, little shattered memories of a happier time. I picked up a few tattered beach towels that had survived the blasts, but they were impossibly heavy on my injured wrist.

My eyes fixed on a figure in the distance, sitting atop the hood of a car that had been shoved into the middle of the street. His arms and hair were streaked black, and his shadow stretched thin behind him.

My legs ached as I approached, bruised to the bone from the explosion in the tunnels, but he didn’t so much as turn his head.

“Billy,” I said cautiously. He stared a thousand yards behind me, past the house that lay in ruins at our feet, to the gray sea. His body slumped, like an empty puppet, and when he stood, he didn’t fully straighten.

“He’s dead, Ember. Wallace is dead.”

Another of us orphaned. Made old before our time.

“Billy, I’m sorry.” I reached for his hand, but it was cold as ice.

“I feel like I should tell someone—is that weird? But there’s no one left to tell.”

His hand squeezed mine, and before I knew what was happening, he was hugging me, and I was hugging him back, and we were both crying.

Below him, my gaze landed on three white lines, etched into the hood of the car where he’d been sitting. Three scars, just like I’d seen below Cara’s collarbone when we’d changed in Greeneville.

Three had been here. Maybe Cara had been working for them. It didn’t matter. Now Cara, and Three, were gone.

We were all that was left.

“There are people to tell,” I heard myself say, the words forming truth in my mouth. “We have to tell people what happened, Billy. What happed to my mom, and to Wallace. We’ll tell everyone. Everyone needs to know. That’s how we stop it.”

I was shaking now, feeling like the world was quaking beneath my feet, and I knew then that it better, because soon everything would be different. I didn’t know how, but I would tell my mother’s story. I would tell mine, too, and maybe, maybe that would shift the tides.

Someone was approaching, and when he saw Chase, Billy turned away, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

I went to him, needing to be close, but the look on his face gave me pause. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted.

“Tracks,” he said, voice hoarse. “Some of the guys found tracks leading south.”

Survivors.

He was thinking of his uncle; I could see it on his face.

Instantly, I was burning again, only this time with hope. My hand slid into Chase’s, and we glanced one more time at the charred, ruined pits of safety, at the last remaining embers that smoldered even after the flames had died. And something told me this was not the end, that there was a reason we had persevered.

Without another word, we ran south.

Now is the point where I get to reflect on how truly lucky I am. As if, with each step further into this writing world, I could ever forget.

This book would not have been possible without the encouragement, advice, and superhero powers of my agent, Joanna MacKenzie, or without Danielle Egan-Miller’s and Shelbey Campbell’s excellent organization and efforts to advocate. I am so grateful to have the Browne and Miller team in my corner.

Breaking Point would still be locked in my laptop if not for my editor, Melissa Frain. Thank you for your patience and kindness, for your brilliant comments, and for always making me laugh. I would not trade knowing you for anything. Thank you to Kathleen Doherty for being an amazing publisher and for taking a chance on a debut author, to Alexis Saarela for organizing Chase and Ember’s social calendar, and to Seth Lerner’s art team for making this cover super cool.

A special thank-you to Officer Hernandez, who allowed me to join him through the Ride Along program at the local police department, and showed me just a hint of the risks he takes each night keeping the city safe.

An author is only as good as her support team. Thank you to my friends and family for knowing me and loving me anyway, to the great authors, booksellers, and librarians I have met on this journey, and to the bloggers who have been absolutely integral in spreading the word about ARTICLE 5 . Thank you to those who have shared their stories of struggle and triumph with me over the past year—you are truly an inspiration. Thank you to Katie McGarry, who I refuse to call a crit partner or a first reader because she is so, so much more than that. Whatever stars aligned for us to meet, I will forever sing their praises.

And thank you to my husband, Jason. I just don’t work without you.

Article 5

Breaking Point

Kristen Simmons has a master’s degree in social work and is an advocate for mental health. She lives with her family and their precious greyhound, Rudy, in Tampa, Florida.

www.kristensimmonsbooks.com

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