State of Pursuit Read Free Page A

catches my shoulder. I push his hand off and turn around, dangerously close to doing something violent. Tears still burn at the edges of my vision, blurring the world.
    “I know this is difficult for you,” Uriah says, grabbing my shoulders. “I’ve watched friends die, too. I understand.”
    I don’t move.
    “Are you going to let Rivera get away with this?” he whispers.
    I raise my chin.
    “He’s not getting away with anything,” I answer.
    I take a step back, giving him a warning look. I size him up. He’s a good six feet, black wavy hair, olive complexion. A strong soldier and a capable sniper. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he
did
just make a mistake in the heat of the battle.
    Or maybe not.
    But he has a point: Am I going to let Rivera get away with leaving Chris?
    No
.
    “Are Sophia and Derek okay?” I ask.
    “They’re fine,” Uriah replies. “Minor injuries. Nothing compared to what happened to you…” He trails off, sadness in his voice.
    I don’t want to hear anymore.
    “Meet me at D2 at oh-eight-hundred,” I state. “Don’t be late.”
    He looks curious. D2 is what we’ve been calling the empty coffee shop at the edge of the rest area. The D stands for
Dugout
, which was what we used to call the lounge area back at Sector 20, the National Guard Base in Fresno.
    He nods. I walk away.
    Uriah is right. I’m not going to let Rivera get away with this.

    D2 was a nice place, once. The coffee bar is now cracked, patched with spare plywood. Chairs and tables are makeshift or broken. The soldiers that are gathered inside the small building are standing or sitting cross-legged on the floor. There are more here than I expected. Familiar faces. Uriah. Vera. Sophia. Derek. Manny.
    Unfamiliar faces, too. New men and women. About thirty in all.
    I’m standing on the other side of the bar.
    It’s dark, cold. A gas lantern glows orange against the far wall.
    “Thank you for coming,” I say, steadying my voice. Surprisingly, I am not nervous. I am hollow, except for the fiery coals of anger and frustration burning inside of me. Talking to a group of thirty does not scare me: losing Chris scares me
much
more than this. “You may have heard rumors about why I called this meeting.” I clear my throat, glance at Manny, and continue. He dips his head slowly, assuring me that I’m doing fine.
    “As you know, Commander Young went MIA yesterday,” I continue. “According to intelligence reports, he is being taken, along with other militia officers, in Omega trucks. Those trucks are heading south on the interstate. South is where Omega is strongest. The epicenter of their western front is based in Los Angeles.”
    I pause before continuing.
    “Our Commander and several other officers are prisoners of war,” I state. “You all know how Omega operates. They capture, interrogate and kill. Colonel Rivera has refused my request to send a rescue unit to stop the trucks and bring them home.”
    “Why the hell would he do that?” Derek says sharply. He is sitting near Sophia, who is regarding the entiresituation with a solemn expression. She has hardly spoken to me since she’s returned from the battlefield.
    “Because he’s a
Colonel
,” Manny drawls. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: politics. It’s all about the
politics
.”
    “What politics?” Derek demands. “This is a battlefield.”
    “He’s trying to save his own skin and his own men,” Manny shrugs. “If the militias fall by the wayside while he does so, it’s no skin off his nose.”
    “But it
is
,” I interrupt. “He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”
    I am surprised to hear those words come out of my mouth.
    Why should I cut Colonel Rivera any slack?
    “Look, I didn’t call you here so you could argue,” I say. “I called you here to ask you a question. I want to bring those men back. Chris Young is the best leader the militia forces have ever had and ever
will
have. I’m asking you to volunteer to join my