“Did you see Chris?” I ask, stepping closer. “Uriah? Did you see him?”

“It was hard to see anything in this weather,” Uriah replies.

“Where were they? Where were you?”

“I was unconscious in the mud,” he says, unflinching. My unspoken accusation hangs heavy in the air: You left Max to die. You left all of us to die.

“I was dragging my butt back to camp when I saw the trucks,” he continues, never taking his eyes from mine. “They were taking prisoners. Mostly officers. I didn’t see Chris, but I would assume that if he was alive, he would be with them.”

I take a deep, steadying breath.

So. The possibility remains: Chris could be alive.

“Are you sure?” Manny presses.

Uriah flicks his darkest, most menacing glare at him.

“I’m positive.”

I glance back at Colonel Rivera.

“We have to go after them,” I say. “I’ll take a platoon up the interstate and we’ll stop the trucks.”

“We’re not stopping anything,” Colonel Rivera snaps. “Our forces are in bad shape. We need to regroup and reorganize.”

“Chris Young has been taken captive!” I reply firmly. “We don’t have time to reorganize. We need to act now.”

“I will not compromise any more lives for the life of one Commander,” Rivera answers, a sour expression on his face. “Regardless of whether or not it’s Young or any other officer.”

“We need Chris,” Manny interjects, keeping his hand on my shoulder. “There’s an enormous amount of loyalty to him in the militias, and he’s a damned good friend of mine.”

“The answer is no,” Rivera says.

“You can’t sentence him to death!” I yell.

I am furious. Once again, Rivera is denying us help when we need it most.

“We are all at risk,” he answers gravely. “This is a war.”

“We’re fighters. We can’t just give up.”

“I am preserving the men we have left.”

“You’re hiding! We have to go after those trucks!”

“We will not.” Rivera slams his cigar on the table, color bleeding into his cheeks. “We will regroup and pull back.”

Pull back? God, is he insane?

“But we pushed them out!” I counter. “Omega is on the defensive. We’ve got the initiative, and we should keep pressing.”

“Our mission is done.” Rivera folds the biggest map. “This discussion is over.”

“I won’t leave him to die,” I say, placing my fists on the table.

“He’s probably already dead.”

I press my lips together, burning with cold anger.

“You don’t want to do this,” I warn quietly.

Vera leans forward, frowning. Angela is frozen.

“It’s done,” Rivera answers.

There is no regret in his voice.

I say nothing. I glare at him, and as he continues folding the maps, I turn around and look at Manny. His expression is difficult to read — then again, my eyes are full of tears, so it’s hard to see straight. I push my way through the crowd inside the restaurant — all of them, and me - full of resentment, disappointment and frustration. When I step outside, the cold air is sharp against my cheeks.

I inhale slowly.

Keep it together. Don’t let them see you cry.

So I don’t.

The old Jack in the Box that we’ve been using as a medical center is packed. Soldiers are crammed into every square inch of space, and the medical staff is working overtime. The building stinks of blood and sweat and pain. I sit on the curb outside the front door, listening to the moans and tortured screams of injured men.

It’s horrible. I want to run away and be free of it, but there is nowhere to go.

“I’m sorry, Cassidy.”

I raise my head slightly. Uriah is exiting the building. His hand has been bandaged and his wounds have been cleaned. He looks better.

“Sorry for what?” I say quietly.

“For what happened to Chris. And Jeff.” He swallows. “And Max.”

“What happened to Max is your fault,” I say simply.

“I didn’t leave him behind on purpose,” he answers.

“You ran away.” I stand up. “You abandoned him. All of us.”

“I was doing what I had to do to stay alive,” he counters.

“This isn’t about individual survival, Uriah,” I say. “This is about keeping the team alive. We’re all a part of the team. Or did you miss one of the three million times Chris pointed this out to us?”

“It was a mistake,” Uriah replies, his jaw tight. Dark eyes flashing. “I said I was sorry, and I’m not going to apologize again.”

“Good. Don’t.”

He sighs heavily.

“Look, Cassidy—”

“—That’s Lieutenant Hart to you,” I snap. “Go get some rest, soldier. You need it.” I shove my hands in my pockets and begin to walk away. Uriah 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 entire situation with a solemn expression. She has hardly spoken to me since she’s returned from the battlefield.