The sky is still dark gray from the ash cloud, so we take turns cleaning up and sheltering in the Sub so everyone gets a break from breathing the contaminated air.
I’m nodding off during one of my breaks, sitting up against a concrete wall in the main Sub area, when someone gently kicks my foot with the toe of their boot.
“Huh?” I look up and see it’s Nova, her expression unreadable.
“We have a visitor,” she says. “Let’s go.”
I get to my feet, my arms still looking like I rolled around in a fireplace. I’m sure my face and hair look the same, but it’s not time to shower yet. Cleanup comes first, with a little time allotted to eating and resting.
“Who is it?” I ask Nova once we’re heading up the Sub’s ramp alone.
Her brows are knitted together when she meets my gaze and answers. “Pax.”
21
“Who did I piss off to get assigned as your handler? It takes more than balls to do this work. Patience is essential, and you have none. Stick to your assignment. That was good info in your last drop.” Decoded message from ILF handler Hiro Tanaka to ILF undercover operative Nightingale
Marcus
Ingrid is calculating. She’s giving me only the information I need, and nothing more. I’ve been trying to prove I’m loyal to the cause, but she’s a fortress.
She spent the entire morning briefing me in a tightly secured meeting room at the island’s main base. Island Three is large. What I could see when I first arrived was just the beginning. The base is massive, but I haven’t been able to access most of it.
Lunch was a buffet that wasn’t just for me, Ingrid, and Tyrone, but all the commanding officers. There were at least three dozen of them, all feasting on elaborate pasta dishes, rich soups, salads, steaks, and even ice cream.
“Been a while since you had ice cream? ” Tyrone asks, taking the chair next to mine in the dining area.
Some people are finishing up their desserts, and coffee is being served. We get limited coffee in our shipments, and we save it until there’s enough for everyone to have a cup. That coffee is nothing like the coffee on Island Three, though. It’s velvety and has a hint of dark chocolate.
“Yeah, it has,” I say. “You guys have a great thing going here. It’s impressive.”
Tyrone is a Black man I’d guess is close to my age, which is thirty. I had a birthday a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t tell anyone. He’s tall and fit, his head shaved close to the scalp. He reminds me of Malachi, one of my college football teammates I was close to.
“It’s a team effort,” he says. “This is a coveted assignment compared to anything on the mainland. Well, outside the Capitol, I mean. Everyone wants to work with President Whitman.”
“Absolutely. I’m in a news blackout where I’m at, what’s happening on the mainland?”
He shrugs. “You know how it is. They’re always putting out fires. Rebellions, tax enforcement, that kind of thing.”
“Tax enforcement?”
“Not working isn’t an excuse not to pay taxes. Some people need education on that.”
I’m sure Whitman’s idea of “education” involves bodily harm. He knows how to control people—threatening their basic needs to extract compliance.
“Nobody said maintaining order would be easy, right?” I quip.
“That’s right. President Whitman is still expanding New America. That costs a lot, but it’s well worth it.”
I shake my head, doing my best to appear wowed. “All of us owe him a debt of gratitude we can never repay.”
“Well said.”
Ingrid is standing nearby, giving me an appreciative look.
“Ready to finish?” she asks me.
“Absolutely.”
