“Oh, my god,” I say. “It’s an ambush.”

Chris grabs the radio. “Get us out of here fast,” he says.

The convoy suddenly lurches forward. Usually a convoy moves along at pretty slow speeds — about fifteen to twenty miles per hour — but we are now speeding along, scenery flashing by the window. I brace myself.

There are six vehicles ahead of us in the lineup. I have been cleverly hidden in a dark suburban that looks like three other transports in this convoy. The first two vehicles to pass between the two pickup trucks explode.

“They’ve got triggers in the road!” Elle screams. “Stop the car!!”

The Humvee in front erupts, a fiery mass hurtling down the road. Our driver veers out of the lineup, throwing us all into the door of the Suburban, slamming on the brakes. The vehicle nearly tips sideways as he spins us into a U-turn. Another vehicle is hit.

“They’ve booby-trapped the road!” Elle yells. “Back up, back up!”

We’re trying. Most of the convoy has spun around, putting distance between the detonations and us. But honestly… there could be explosives hidden anywhere in the road, right?

We back away. Our driver spins the wheels on the Suburban, leaving black marks on the cement. My heart races as I grasp the door handle to keep from being flung to the other side of the vehicle. Elle looks at me, then at Chris.

“We’ve got to go around,” she says.

“The entire highway should have been secure,” Chris replies. “We had people check.” He looks at me. “We can’t deviate from our route. It will take too long, and there are too many risks.”

I lock gazes with Chris.

“We’ve got to push through,” I say. “We don’t have a choice.”

I look out the window. I can see Manny’s biplane flying watch over the convoy. “Get Manny on the radio,” I say. “He’s got a better visual on what’s going on down here than we do.”

Elle snaps her eyes up.

“Do you want me to check the road with Bravo?” she says. “That’s what we do. We can find the bomb triggers for you.”

I shake my head.

“Not yet. Let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”

Chris grabs the radio and contacts Manny. The connection is rife with static and the background noise of the wind whipping around the biplane.

“Manny, give me a visual,” Chris commands.

“You’ve got about a dozen unfriendly rogues on the east side of the freeway,” Manny replies, his voice crackling. “I don’t see any more than that. You’ve got more than enough manpower to take them out, but it’s the road I’m worried about. There could be more bombs.”

“We’ve already lost two vehicles,” I mutter.

Uriah shakes his head. “We can’t stop. They’ll fire on us. We have to take them out, then let Elle check the road with Bravo.”

“We’re not doing that,” I state. “We can’t stop for anything. That’s what they want us to do. They’re trying to take us all out at the same time.” I grab the radio and open my map. “We can take this side road through the coastal foothills and connect with the highway later on. It will take longer, but it will be away from the main drag. We can avoid this mess.”

“Manny,” I continue. “I’ve got a map in my hands and I see a way out of this. We’re going to backtrack to Dinosaur Point Road and take it through the hills. We can hook back up with the highway. I want you to fly ahead and keep us posted on what you see. If you see anything — even the wind blow through the trees — I want to know about it.”

“You got it, Commander,” Manny replies. “Hang tight and let me lead the way.”

I spin the map around and place my finger on a little road that winds through the hills, joining back up later with Highway 156 and Highway 101 — both viable routes into Monterey.

“We have no choice,” I say again.

Chris nods. He picks up the radio and informs the rest of the convoy of our decision. There is no argument. We will take the back roads. Manny will inform us of any activity further down the road.

My heart sinks into my stomach at the realization that at least two vehicles were blown up. At least a dozen people were killed. Vera and Sophia are okay, but there are already casualties. And we haven’t even started negotiations yet.

“There she is,” Uriah mutters, whistling softly. “Beautiful.”

The ocean. It is a clear, sunny day. The white sand dunes are sparkling against the backdrop of the vast, blue Pacific Ocean. I haven’t been to the seashore in at least a year — and certainly not since the EMP and Omega invasion.

“Wow,” I breathe. “It’s stunning.”

The highway here is wide and empty, parallel to the beach. In the distance, the Monterey Peninsula is clearly visible, jutting into the harbor like the tip of a half moon. Old beachside hotels line the freeway. There are military checkpoints at regular intervals. We have spent hours navigating through the back roads, connecting with Highway 156 and southbound Highway 101, avoiding ambushes and potential problem areas. Manny has been flying in front of our convoy all day, keeping us updated on ground activity.

I touch Chris’s knee and force a smile. A bit of the tension between us dissipates. With each near-death experience, we are reminded that even if we are having difficulties in our relationship — we are glad to be alive, and we are still a team. It is an encouragement to me, even during these hard times.

I lean close to the window, almost pressing my nose against the glass as we enter the city limits. The convoy rumbles to the right-hand side of the road and we take an exit onto Del Monte. We roll through the city.

There is a jogging trail and pretty, overgrown parks. We pass three more checkpoints. There are National Guardsmen and militiamen and women everywhere, in the parks, near the buildings. The streetlights have been replaced with military intersections, with National Guard troops directing traffic, waving us through to what’s called the “staging area” for our convoy.

The road curves, and a long wrought-iron fence becomes visible. A thrill of excitement and raw anxiety shoots through me.

This is where the next chapter begins.

The convoy rolls around the curve in the road. We come to a gated entrance. The compound is surrounded with thick, green trees. I see an on-base military store and gas station, a post-office with glass windows and a large manmade pond swarming with noisy geese.

The convoy halts. We pass another checkpoint at the front guardhouse. National Guardsmen check the vehicles and ask for the identification of our senior officers. One of the younger soldiers makes eye contact with me through the window. He smiles slightly before turning away.

“They’re happy you’re here,” Uriah mutters.

“They’re happy we’re here,” I correct.

Uriah gives me a strange look and the convoy moves forward. The gate opens and we roll into a large parking lot, heavily shrouded with more of the same trees — sweet smelling coastal pines, palms and oaks. The convoy stops. The engines shut off.

It’s time to go.

Uriah holds the door open for me as I climb outside, into the clear sunlight. The air is clean. I smell the salty spray of the ocean in the wind.

Chris takes my arm and turns me toward him.

“No matter what happens,” he says quietly, “we’re a team.”

I open my mouth to reply, but I am interrupted by a harsh, “Chris Young?”

Chris removes his hand from my arm and we both look at a man approaching us. He’s tall — almost as tall as Chris — with blonde hair. His hair is so blonde, it’s nearly white. He’s dressed in dark fatigues and a blue shirt that says: SEALS.

“Devin?” Chris says.

The man stops and salutes us. Chris nods respectfully, following military protocol. And then a huge, sincere smile spreads across his face. “Devin! Son of a gun!”