“Yes, well…” I clear my throat. “Thanks, but where can I start looking for survivors?”

“Second level,” she replies. “Take the stairs. The elevators are crammed with workers and wounded.”

“Thank you.”

“Senator?” She lets go of my hand. “Thank you.”

I force a weak smile, then walk away, unsure of how to respond. I find the stairwell and climb to the second story. The hospital hallway is jammed with stretchers and doctors. I haven’t seen this much activity inside a medical facility since before the EMP. I walk into the first room. It looks like it was a former physical therapy ward, but it has been cleared of all equipment. It is filled with dozens of makeshift beds and patients. State of the art medical supplies have been salvaged here, and everything is being used on these survivors. Doctors and nurses are buzzing through the rooms, checking victims, administering shots of morphine, antibiotics and more.

I go from bed to bed, scanning for my father’s face. My hopes become smaller and smaller as I look around. What if he’s not here? What if he was killed instantly in the explosion, like so many others? I wouldn’t even know if his body had been taken out with the dead.

Please, God, I pray. After everything we’ve been through… don’t let him die.

I go through four more rooms, checking the faces of each individual survivor on the beds. I do not recognize my father, and as this reality sinks in, I withdraw to the corner of the fifth room and stand. I cross my arms, blinking back angry, hurt tears.

Not like this, I think. He wasn’t meant to die anonymously.

I went through so much to find my father again after the EMP… it can’t end like this. It simply can’t.

The moans of the wounded in this ward is too much for me to handle right now, so I slip into the hall, walking through the sea of nurses and emergency workers. I feel suffocated, trapped. I push through the door at the end of the hall and enter the cold, concrete stairwell. I climb downstairs, hit the first floor, and leave the hospital. By the time I get outside, I am crying. Tears run down my face. I cannot hide them, nor do I want to.

I round the edge of the hospital and find a secluded bench, away from the commotion. I sit down and bury my face in my hands, sobbing. Desperation and fear sinks in. If my father is not found, then it will be assumed that he is dead, and that will be the end of it. His life — his work, his legacy, and his connection to me — will be severed in an instant.

My hatred for Omega burns brighter.

What will I do if he’s dead? I think. Where will I go?

The answer is simple: I will go where I am needed. That is what I have done in the past, and it’s what I should do now.

I wipe my tears away, blinking at the world with blurred vision.

I steady my breathing, slipping back into battle mode.

Into keep-it-together mode.

I stand up, and I leave the hospital.

I am walking toward the hotel where the militia officers have been quartered. The sun has set. I zip my jacket up, pausing at the corner of the block. The hotel is glimmering against the night sky, buzzing with activity at the bottom level. Where there used to be valet parking, there are armored vehicles. It’s now a fortress, surrounded by concrete T walls and armed guards manning every entry point.

By the time I reach the hotel lobby, I realize how completely exhausted I am. My steps are slow and labored. The front desk and receptionist areas are being manned by National Guardsmen.

I head to the elevator, knowing that if I don’t sleep for at least a couple of hours, I won’t be any good to anyone. The elevator arrives, and I step inside. I reach the fifteenth floor. The doors open, and for the first time in hours, there is silence. I breathe a sigh of relief and walk to my hotel room. I close the door, lock it, and lean against it. I take a deep breath and slide down to the floor, sitting on the carpet, closing my eyes.

The city streets gleam through the windows with the lights of backup generators and patrol vehicles making their rounds. The rumble of engines and buzz of voices is a soft hum through the hotel window. How do we know Omega won’t attack again? Why did they stop with just two cruise missiles? Are they playing a game with us? Cat and mouse? The game of intimidation? If it was meant to scare the crap out of us, it certainly worked.

But I don’t think that’s their game. I believe their aim is to remove our leaders, kill us off one by one, and destroy the strength of the resistance to the Omega invasion.

Am I afraid? Yes. Will I stop fighting? Never.

I collapse on the bed, laying my cheek against the scratchy bedspread. This is luxury living, compared to what I have been doing for the last year. But I don’t care about that. As I fall into an exhausted sleep, my thoughts are on my father.

Omega has taken him away from me again.

When I open my eyes, I forget where I am. Am I home? Why isn’t my alarm clock going off? Has Dad left for work already? Did I oversleep?

I sit straight up, confused and disoriented.

Wait. I swing my legs around and place my boots on the floor.

I’m not home. Dad is MIA. The Capitol Building was bombed. I am a Commander and a Senator. I have responsibilities.

I stand up and open the closet. I pull out my spare uniform — basically a carbon copy of the torn and dirty combat fatigues and jacket I’m wearing — and head to the bathroom for a quick rinse.

While I am getting ready, I reflect on everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.

My friend Angela Wright is dead. The Capitol Building has been destroyed. Dozens of officers have been wounded. Dad is missing in action. And Chris… well, that’s not important, now.

I get dressed, comb the tangles out of my curly red hair and look at myself in the mirror.

“I can get through this,” I say aloud.

I leave the hotel room and slam the door shut behind me. I’m not just tired. I’m angry. Omega has crossed a line. Killing Angela, potentially killing my father… I have been fighting all this time for my friends and family. For the people that I care about. If they are gone, what am I supposed to do?

Fight harder, a little voice says. Hit them back twice as hard.

I step inside the elevator, exiting at the lobby. Morning sunlight is streaming through the glass windows, casting a heavenly glow on an otherwise gritty scene. Soldiers move around, rotating watches and patrols, acting with purpose and focus. I scan the crowds for familiar faces. There is nobody here that I recognize.

I reach the lobby doors and step outside, coming face to face with a young woman in a National Guard uniform. Her dark, honeyed skin blends with black hair and eyes. I stop dead in my tracks, staring for a minute, and then a smile spreads across my face.

“Sophia!”

I throw my arms around her neck and embrace her. Sophia Rodriguez. The friend who helped me survive an Omega POW slave labor camp. The friend who joined the National Guard and fought against Omega with me… and also the friend who claimed Chris was a traitor and refused to help me rescue him from Omega’s POW Holding Center in Los Angeles.

My shock and surprise at seeing her here overcomes the anger I felt the last time we were in the same room.

I pull away, noting Sophia’s pained expression.

“It’s good to see you,” I say, my smile fading.

She clears her throat.

“You survived,” she replies. There is no smile on her face.

“Yes. Operation Angel Pursuit was a success. We brought Chris back, Sophia. We did it!”

She shakes her head, not meeting my gaze.