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Mockingbird tracked Finch’s movements on screen. If the agent could reach his rendezvous at the Obelisk, they’d be home free. Finch wove, probably dodging pursuers. He’d said he wasn’t far. Not in geographic terms.
Almost there. You can do it, man.
But then his signal light flickered and went out. Now there were fewer on the screen than there ever had been. Maybe he was kidding himself, fighting this guerilla war. Maybe it was like the war in Vietnam, ultimately unwinnable. At least that’s what his dad had always said.
Mockingbird leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands. Fuck. What he wouldn’t give for T-89’s killing power. Just for one day.
FOUR
Two days later, the situation was dire. The Red Cross had run out of supplies, and survivors went hungry. That meant rioting. Silas was sorry for that, but he also knew it meant he’d tarried too long in Puerto López. There was no transportation yet, so he’d walk. It was time to go.
For the second time, he found himself starting over with nothing but the clothes on his back. Another man might find that disturbing, but he had lost so much over the years that retaining his freedom meant everything. That was the only thing he couldn’t sacrifice.
So he took off without speaking to anyone. He’d look for water on his way out of town. If necessary, he could go awhile without eating. Footsteps quickened into a run behind him. When he turned, he saw her—Juneau—the woman he’d saved.
“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. Take care.”
“I want to come with you.”
Of all possible words, none could have surprised him more, except I want to have your babies. He studied her for a moment. She had braided all her hair that first day, and neither of them had bathed recently. Like him, she was grubby and worse for the wear from sleeping in her clothes and working with the Red Cross.
“Why?”
“I can’t stay here.”
He almost asked about that, too—and then he realized he knew the answer. They’d dug out the school the day before. No survivors. Not the children, not her coworkers. And so she wanted to run from the memories, still raw and fresh. He understood that impulse, though it was doomed to fail. No matter where she went, when she closed her eyes, she’d see their faces and suffer the survivor’s guilt.
“It may be rough,” he warned.
“That’s fine. I just want to get away from here. I can help. Translate for you, if you need it. And it seems like I’m safer traveling with you.”
Silas could never have imagined a woman saying that to him, seeing his size and demeanor as good things. Protector, not jailor. Could he switch roles, this once? He could never make up for what he’d done, but maybe he could balance some of the weight. Late at night, in that awful place, he had read their files. He remembered all their names: everyone he’d hurt, everyone who died. There had been nothing else to do, apart from watch TV. He left old shows on for noise and company, but they didn’t assuage the need for human contact.
But down there, he had been the enemy, a collaborator who inflicted endless torment. Often, he’d thought of ending it. That way, the Foundation could never learn the truth about him, and he could stop the pain. He’d tried, once. The chip overrode his nervous system and forced him to black out. After that, he accepted his fate, but resignation was a terrible mistress.
On the outside, Silas had only one goal now. He wanted to find the families of those who had perished at Dr. Rowan’s hand and give them closure. He just didn’t know how to go about it. For the past months, he’d kept moving, fearful of staying in one place too long. The fear of being hunted had driven him out of the country, in fact. Led him here, to this moment, with this gray-eyed woman, gazing up at him in hope he’d save her once again. How fucking unlikely.
And yet he heard himself say, “Sure. It would be good to have company.”
She fell into step with him. He set a slow pace, mindful of her knee, though she was moving better now. Over the last two days, she hadn’t complained, though her leg was black-and-blue below the cuff of her baggy cargo shorts. She ought to be worried about replacing her possessions, her identification, and finding a U.S. embassy that could get her out of the country before things got worse. As it stood, he had no idea of her intentions.
It took longer than it should to work their way out of town. Twice, he glared refugees away; they were armed with rusty pipe, bits of broken glass. God knew, the last thing he wanted to do was fight, and only the fact that they obviously had nothing discouraged the looters. People prowled through the wreckage of damaged buildings, not looking for survivors, but for anything they could carry away. It felt to him like crows devouring the dead before the corpses had cooled.
The day waned as they made it to the southern outskirts of town. Sunsets were spectacular here along the coast, all violence and blood, red sky dotted with black-purple clouds; they reminded him of pocket galaxies being born. If not for the devastation behind them, he could almost believe they were taking a low-budget vacation, as if choice—and not the lack of it—had brought them to this pass.
What kind of woman left everything behind like this? Went walking toward the horizon with a man she’d met two days ago? Her contradictions fascinated him.
“Where are we headed?” she asked eventually.
“Salango is six kilometers south of here. The infrastructure may be destroyed there, too, I don’t know. If so, we’ll keep moving. Puerto Rico, Ayampe.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s a longer hike to Olon. Sooner or later, we’ll find someplace with working phones, and buses running to other parts of the country.”
“I don’t have any money.” But she didn’t sound concerned; it was more a statement of fact.
He smiled at that. “Nor do I. This should prove interesting.”
“Surviving on our wits?”
