Page 16

VALE

I’m done with this trip. The guys in the back smell terrible. The thought of that girl, Amity, back in the PS is the worst kind of itch. Allowing myself to think about her makes me want to think about her more. It shouldn’t work that way.

But my mind keeps scanning for danger and snagging on her face, worried and brightly intelligent, her eyes following our abrupt departure from the PS courthouse.

I start thinking about completely unrelated things, like her slightly minty, sweet smell, or the freckles still sprinkled on her nose and cheeks.

The kids used to call her Pepper, not as a mean thing, I think she was okay with it.

It slipped out when we were talking, but it was a mistake to acknowledge that I recognized her.

Her mom is a big-time Soldier in the PS now.

That means Amity is nothing but trouble and I need to stop thinking about her.

I also need to get out of this van. I’m the one driving as we roll up to the gates of the Forge compound. They’re all asleep, which makes it easier.

I roll my window down to confer with the guy in the security booth, then head over to intake. These men will have to prove themselves, and frankly it won’t be easy. If they don’t make the cut they can try their luck with the Brotherhood or up in Fairbanks. There’s a lot of work up there.

The Forge has high standards for our members. It’s not only about physical strength and fighting ability. It’s something else too, a dedication to retake the democratic world that was stolen from us. Do whatever is necessary.

I turn on the van’s overhead light.

“Okay, everyone. Out.”

They rub their eyes, even Mark. He shakes the sleep off first and starts opening up the doors.

Some of the men have backpacks or other bags with them, some have nothing. They’ll be provided for while they’re here.

The excitement of getting out of the PS and Canada is gone now. They look worried, unsure.

“You’ll sleep it off first,” I tell them, to sighs of relief. “Take a shower, for God’s sake,” I add, rolling my window down. It was a long drive. It took close to four days, even switching off at night.

Once they drag their tired bodies out and Mark ushers them through the door to the gym in this former high school complex, I slam the doors shut and hop back in. I drive down under the school where we added parking and storage for our larger machinery .

I’m tired but also wired and I think I’ll train a little, hit pads if anyone’s around, or punch the bag.

I park in the garage and hop on the elevator, sincerely wishing to see no one, just go straight to my room.

My wish comes true. I get up to the fourth floor and head down the hall. My rooms are in a series of offices, an old administration suite. I have a small room and a bathroom to call my own, which is more than most men have here.

It’s because of my father, sure, but I’ve also earned it. I’m only eighteen, but I take the most dangerous missions. I come early and stay late. I try to live up to his expectations of me. Even when I fall short it’s still after pushing myself to the limit, sometimes physically, sometimes mentally.

Like the training I had to undergo to pass undercover as a guard in the PS, or blend in with loggers in New Hampshire.

If my father has a job he needs done, I can figure out how to do it for him.

My room is dark, but warm. I strip down in the bathroom and rinse the smell of the van off me, even if I’m on my way to go get sweaty again.

Water warms my back and I tip my head, letting it run over my face, down my neck and chest. Hot, scalding water. The restlessness returns and I decide to stick to my plan of heading down to train.

I dry off and hang my towel carefully, straightening it on the bar. I brush my teeth thoroughly and comb my hair.

I move to the drawers that hold my clothes. The gym clothes are the third drawer down, rows of baggy shorts folded tightly next to rolled-up sweats. On the other side, a neat array of folded T-shirts.

I take one T-shirt and one pair of shorts carefully, doing my best not to disturb the rest. I pull the clothes on and open a cupboard to find the few pairs of shoes I own besides my boots.

I grab my boxing shoes and lace them up slowly, trying to sink into the mindset. I remember I left the PS guard uniform back in the van and scribble a note to myself, putting it on my list of things to take care of tomorrow.

For tonight, I bring my gloves and hand wraps, phone and earpods, slipping my mouthguard into my pocket, and head downstairs.

The workout room is an old fitness center. There are ancient bikes and bars and plates in the back. A ring off to one side that doesn’t get used much except for official fights. And there are the bags.

The floor squishes beneath my feet—mats cover most of the room. I was hoping there’d be someone down here to hit pads with, but it’s empty this late so I set myself up next to the bag, slipping earpods into my ears, jumping rope to warm up.

Then, with a beat to guide me, it’s not hard to get through round after round of jabs and crosses.

I move on to combinations, mixing in my hooks and body shots. I prowl around the bag, moving right and left, closing the space to practice up close, defensive. Backing up to strike from the outside, careful. Sweat starts to drip down my back and my shirt grows damp.

I grab a towel from the pile and wipe my face and arms, thoroughly warmed up. Now I focus on using more power, letting loose, listening for a loud crack exploding on the bag.

I repeat until it sounds right in my ears, until it feels right on my knuckles, sore and starting to get battered. Eventually it’s time to stop. I have a million things to deal with tomorrow and it would make sense to get a few hours of sleep before then.

I can’t stop. The heavy beat of the music pushes me. I punch and punch and still can’t shake off the restless feeling, the pain sharper now that the skin’s cracked on my knuckles, even through the gloves and hand wraps.

“Vale. Vale!” A man is behind me, shouting. I pull my earpods out, and I don’t mask the fury on my face. The man draws back. He’s one of my father’s lieutenants.

“Your father wants to see you,” he says in a quieter voice. Maybe he was saying my name a few times before I responded. I melt away the strong emotions that have me in their clutch, using a PS technique.

“Fine,” I tell him. “Let me change first.”

“No. He wants a report right now,” he insists.

I glance down at my sweat-stained shirt and shorts. “Really? Can you give me a second?”

He shakes his head no, refusing to argue.

“Fine, lead the way,” I sigh, pulling off my gloves. I hold them in my hands, leaving the wraps on to cover my knuckles that are scraped up and bloody, and we head upstairs.

My father is sitting in a meeting room with a few of his advisors. Surprise and a hint of pride cross his face when I come in, still recovering my breath from the workout, not nearly enough sweat wiped away with the gym’s towel. I smell as bad as those green recruits in the van.

“Vale.” His eyebrows are raised so high I hope they don’t freeze and stay there. “Enjoying yourself?”

I refuse to react. “Father. It’s the middle of the night. What do you need?”

“I need my report,” my father says.

“I just got back,” I tell him.

“I also came in today. And yet here I am, fulfilling my responsibilities.”

I tell him what I know. “The report will come through in the morning. Ten on schedule, one detained at the border. I delivered them to intake about,” I check my phone, “three hours ago.”

My father and his advisors nod, taking notes.

“There’s nothing else?” he asks, an odd question in his voice.

“I’ll include as much detail as I can in the report,” I tell him, hoping to be back in the shower and in bed as soon as possible. My exhaustion is starting to hit me like a train.

“There was a girl on the train. It sounded like she knew you,” my father chooses this moment to tell me.

I can’t hide my shock. Truth is, I don’t know a lot of girls. Could it be Amity Bloome, with the freckles and the questions?

“Heading here?” I ask.

“Do you want to tell me about her?” He answers my question with his own.

“What did she look like?” I demand. It might not be the same girl .

“Well, I took a picture, of course,” my father says smoothly, tapping his phone.

My phone vibrates and I open his message, a photo from the dining car of two people in profile. One in a hoodie, with asymmetrical hair. The other one is Amity but she looks different.

She’s wearing street clothes and her long hair has been chopped off and swept up into a short ponytail.

It’s…cute. She’s really…wow, she was pretty in her school uniform but this is something else entirely.

I wonder if my dad knows who she is. He wasn’t involved with MAV like my mom was, he probably has no idea Amity and I knew each other as kids.

“She talked about you and she asked about a man named Zeph, with red hair.”

“One of the new recruits. I’ll ask Zeph about this first thing tomorrow,” I assure him. “We’ll get more answers.”

“We will,” my father agrees. “I need to know what her deal is, why she followed him up here. Is she working for the PS? Is she some kind of spy?”

“She’s a kid,” I scoff.

“You’re a kid and you’re a spy,” he growls back.

Well, that might be true. But I’ve met operatives and Amity was nothing like that. Curious, sure, but not like the battle-hardened women the PS sends up here to the Embassy.

“She says she’s on her way up here. If she makes it, she will need to be found. You and Zeph will deal with this and report back to me.”

“Yes, sir,” I agree.

“And Vale,” my father says, his nose wrinkling, “take a shower, buddy.”