“Didn’t Arlene mention it to you?”

“I think I would remember that.”

“It’s in a fifteen mile stretch of territory before the city,” he says. “A religious order of monks took over the area. They were driven out of the city by Omega, and since Omega doesn’t take kindly to any religious groups of any kind…well, they’re living in the mountains.”

“Omega doesn’t take kindly to anything,” Uriah says. “Why do they call it Mad Monk Territory?”

“It might be because of the murders.” Manny reaches in his back pocket, and pulls out his ever-faithful flask. I was beginning to think he’d lost it. “Dozens of survivors leaving Los Angeles have been found dead on the trails. They say it’s because the monks went mad.” He shrugs. “More likely than not, they’re just a little bit…stir crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound like religious monks to me,” I state, tracing the knife on my belt with my finger. “It sounds like a gang. Can we bypass the territory?”

“Not unless you want to add another week to our trip.”

“Screw that,” Uriah comments. “We need to get to L.A. now.”

Manny pulls a map out of his saddlebag. He folds it in half and points to a stretch of mountainside about thirty miles outside of Los Angeles.

“This is Mad Monk Territory,” he says. “Chances are, we’ll be able to go straight through it and we won’t have a problem. But…on the off chance that we do run into some crazies…” he lifts the map up. “We’ll be in big trouble.”

“We know how to handle trouble. Besides, we don’t have a choice,” I say. “Chris can only survive interrogation for so long. We’ve got a deadline to keep.”

“If we want to get to the city in under a week we have to,” Uriah agrees.

“Excuse me.” Andrew has worked his way through the mass of horses and militiamen. His dark sunglasses are hiding his eyes. Three radios are strapped to his belt. Our radioman, ever exceptional and alert. “I’ve heard a lot of talk about the Mad Monks on the Underground radio over the last few days, and we do not want to run into these people.”

“What have you heard, Andrew?” I ask.

“Civilian victims and Omega soldiers have been found in pieces,” he answers. “Omega, militia, civilian. They’re not showing any preference. They’re just killing randomly.”

“Why doesn’t Omega just take them out?” Vera says.

“They don’t have the time or the resources,” I reply. “Besides, what would Omega want with miles of dry brush and grass? It’s not their number one priority.” I look at Andrew again. “What else do you know about them?”

“We don’t know that they’re really monks.” He cracks a smile. “They dress the part. Robes and hoods and shaved heads, but other than that, all I know is that they like to kill things.”

“Sounds like an urban cult,” I remark. “There was a gang called the Metro Monks when I lived in Culver City. They were always a big problem for the Los Angeles Police Department. My dad used to talk about them a lot.”

“It could be an offshoot of the same gang,” Uriah suggests.

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Even the criminals left Los Angeles when Omega came. They’re locked outside, too.”

I look between Manny, Uriah and Andrew.

“What do you guys think we should do?” I say.

I need all the advice I can get.

“I say we risk it,” Uriah replies. “We’re in this to get Chris Young back, and if we bypass the territory, this operation will take a week longer than we planned and he could be dead. That defeats the mission.”

“But we can’t accomplish the mission if we’re dead,” Vera adds, flat.

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Uriah answers.

“It’s not like we couldn’t take the Monks in a fight,” Andrew adds. “We could. It’s just the possibility of casualties. That weakens our chances of success.”

“That’s how we live our lives anymore,” I point out. “We go through. Any objections?”

Silence. Good.

Mad Monk Territory, here we come.

“I don’t get it,” I told Chris. “How come you know so much about me, but I don’t know anything about you?”

He settled against a tree. The memory is still clear, despite the fact that it happened nearly a year ago.

“Don’t look at me,” Chris said. “You’re the one who likes to figure things out.”

“And you don’t?” I stopped to retie the laces on my boots. “I just don’t know a lot about you. I mean, I know where you come from and who your parents are…but I don’t really know you.”

“What do you want to know, Cassie?" he chuckled.

“All of your dark secrets.”

“Ah, but those are mine.”

“One of these days…” I trailed off, watching the sunrise on the horizon. It was beautiful. One of the few moments of peace we’d had in weeks. “I just want to know who you are,” I muttered.

That’s all I wanted.

It’s all I still want. There are so many questions about Chris Young that have always been left unanswered. As a twenty-eight-year-old Navy SEAL, his world experience has always been far advanced in comparison to mine. What made him such a good leader?

I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to anything these days.

Mad Monk Territory isn’t as scary as I thought it would be. The mountains are beautiful, rolling. Nothing here has been burned or decimated by Omega forces. Nature is still intact. We’ve been riding for hours, and I hate to admit that I’m sore. My hips, legs and lower back are strained from maintaining a position in Katana’s saddle for such long periods at a time.

I’m not the only one who’s feeling battered, either.

My militiamen are used to constant movement, hiking, climbing, and sneaking around. Sitting on a horse is a whole new ballgame. It hurts.

“We’ve got another full day before we hit Los Angeles,” Uriah says. “I suggest that we camp for the night and travel the rest of the way tomorrow. The horses need to rest.”

I keep my eyes on the trail, thinking.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to camp in this area,” I reply.

“There’s been no sign of hostile activity yet.”

“Exactly. Yet.” I shake my head. “We’ll scout for a good area to camp when we’re out of here.”

Uriah doesn’t continue to press me, but I can tell that he disagrees. He’s probably sore, too. But I don’t want to be ambushed by psychos. That would put a serious cramp in my style. We’ve already had enough surprises on this mission, anyway. I’m not up for any more.

As night falls, we rest the horses, feed them, and give them water. We eat a small meal ourselves — enough to keep us moving — and mount up again. In the darkness, we have to move slower. We don’t want our horses to trip on rocks or ledges. They’re not invincible anymore than we are, and we have to keep a sharp eye out for them.

“Oh, my God!” Vera gasps. She pulls back on the reins of her horse, coming to a halt. “Up ahead!”

It’s difficult to discern shapes and sounds in the darkness, but when I concentrate, I can see what she’s looking at. Dozens of poles have been pounded into the ground up ahead. They’re staked on top of a hill.

“What is it?” I breathe.

“People.” Vera doesn’t mince words. “Look harder.”

I have keen eyesight, and the closer I look, the more I see. Dead bodies are tied to the poles. They’re not very old, either. Clothing, hair and flesh are still intact.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” Uriah says.

“No argument there,” I reply.

I swallow a lump in my throat. Seeing dead bodies is nothing new to me at this point. But this isn’t simple shock. This is sadism. We dig our heels into the sides of our horses and move away from the hill. My heart beats faster.

I don’t want to die like that.

I have to live. I have to get to Chris…