Dead silence. A few beats later she yanks on my arm, jerking me to a halt. I instinctively spin and snap her arm into a painful wristlock. I’ve lived in a warzone far too long to react in any other way. She glares at me, wincing. I release her arm and take a step backward, raising my hands.

“You’re not on edge, are you, Hart?” she grits out.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I state.

“I will be watching you,” she warns. “Both of you.”

“Leave Chris out of this.”

“Chris?” She rolls her eyes. “I was talking about Sophia Rodriguez. Chris is another story. How you two ended up together I’ll never know.”

I feel my cheeks redden as I whirl around, following the line of people. I don’t have to take this. Common bullying tactics. And I’ve always hated bullies. What Vera Wright has against me I have no idea, but she’s going to have to forget it. Or regret it. I don’t have time to engage in petty playground drama. We’ve got a war to fight — and if she has any brains, she’ll realize that, too.

When I reach the meadow, Vera is walking behind me. She says nothing. Neither do I. The long stretch of cut grass is left wide open, and in the distance I can hear the low stutter of an engine. I strain my eyes, searching the meadow for the source of the noise.

“Look up,” Vera says, annoyed, a hand on her hip.

I ignore her tone and do as she says, searching the skies. The engine noise gets louder, and suddenly a shape appears against the blue sky. An airplane. A small dark blue biplane with a red and white stripe on each wing. I gape openly at it.

I haven’t seen any aircraft since the day passenger planes fell out of the sky in Los Angeles the night the EMP struck.

“Say hello to the air force,” Vera deadpans.

I gauge her expression. Cold. Icy.

She’s serious.

I squint against the early morning sunlight, watching the old biplane totter across the sky, barely seeming to move at all. It curves toward the meadow, the engine roaring louder as it descends. The aircraft dips down and settles into a graceful landing on the short, manicured grass.

It trundles along for a moment, coasting into a wide U-turn. Finally it rolls to a stop, the engine cutting out. The spectators around the edges of the meadow don’t look nearly as shocked as I am to see an operating airplane in the middle of the High Sierras. They start cheering as the pilot jumps out of the open cockpit, removing a cap and oversized goggles. He’s a tall, thin man wearing a leather duster. His hair is gray, hanging in overgrown strands to his chin. As his feet hit the ground, he lets out a whoop of victory.

“Welcome back, Manny,” Vera says brightly, approaching him.

So cheery and sweet. What an act.

“Good morning, my girl. Good morning,” he says, shutting the door. Hoisting a black satchel over his shoulder. “How goes life at Camp Freedom?”

“Same as always.”

I come up behind Vera’s shoulder.

“I’m Cassidy,” I blurt out. I’m not waiting for an introduction from Vera. “Who are you?”

Manny assesses me, looking surprised.

“Well, now,” he says, a lazy smile lighting his wrinkled features, “what have we got here? What’s your name?”

“Cassidy Hart. I’m…new.”

“I can see that.” Manny starts strolling across the meadow, and Vera and I follow. “You come alone or with soldiers?”

“I’m with the Freedom Fighters.”

“Ah.” He pauses. “The population of redheads just went from zero to one.” He winks at me. “I’m Manny, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. Now where’d you get a biplane?”

“Nosy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Are you going to answer my question?”

Vera sighs dramatically, casting me a weird look.

“Air support. Hello.” She falls into step with Manny and I. “Manny’s plane is how we can keep a better handle on the mountain region. He’s our eye in the sky.”

“You’re a scout,” I say.

“Scout, soldier, pilot, and incredibly good looking.” He starts laughing at himself. “That plane is a good friend of mine. Belonged to my granddad originally. Figured I’d use it for something worthwhile.”

He takes a turn at the main road, heading toward the Headquarters building.

“You reporting to the Commanders?” I ask.

“That’s the general idea, yes.”

“What did you see when you were scouting?”

“Trees. A hell of a lot of trees.” He laughs again. “They’re everywhere.”

I frown. Vera is studying my face closely as we approach the building again.

“Well, come on, ladies,” Manny says, climbing the steps. “Let’s tell the head cats what I found.”

“What did you find?” Vera asks.

“Something. Come on.”

“He’s a little different, isn’t he?” I say.

“He can hear every word you’re saying,” Manny replies. “And yes. I am.”

By the time we reach the Headquarters building again, Vera has succeeded in reapplying her fake, friendly façade. Angela and the others look pleased when Manny steps inside. He slams his satchel down on the table and crows, “I’m back. What have you birds been doing while I’ve been gone?”

“Nothing much,” Angela replies. “Welcome home.”

Chris glances at me, raising an eyebrow.

I shrug.

Don’t look at me.

Manny kicks back on an empty chair, propping his boots up on the table. Vera practically dives for the seat next to Chris, leaving me as the only person in the room without a chair. I glare daggers at the back of her head as I lean against the wall.

“Well,” Manny says, toying with a loose pen, “I hate to tell you this, folks, but we may be in for some trouble.”

“That’s supposed to be news?” I mumble.

“What kind of trouble?” Chris asks, shooting me a look.

“Huh.” Manny leans forward, rubbing a hand over his chalky stubble. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Manny, this is Alpha One of the Freedom Fighters. Chris Young,” Angela explains. “Frank brought them back with him.”

Dad is sitting across from Chris, and I notice that he’s not in a good mood. I guess the previous argument isn’t sitting well between them…Dad’s lips are pressed together, his arms folded across his chest. He looks at me, frowning, and turns his gaze to Manny.

Maybe he’s mad that I sided with Chris during the argument.

Well…I can’t be neutral all the time. I have to make my own choices.

“And you’re who?” Manny asks me, turning. “Cassidy Hart. You’re a Freedom Fighter, too? What?”

“Codename Yankee,” I say simply.

Manny smiles.

“Ah. I’ve heard of you.”

“Apparently everybody but me has heard of me.”

“Apparently.” Manny flips the pen in neat circle, catching it in the palm of his hand. “We, ladies and gentlemen, are right in the path of a decent-sized mechanized enemy force.”

“A convoy?” Angela asks, alarmed. “Explain.”

“Not a lot to tell. From the air, there’s a convoy coming in our direction. I couldn’t get too close, but they’re definitely military, and they’re well armed.” He shrugs. “But my advice would be to get ready for their arrival at any rate.”

“How many vehicles?” Chris asks. “How far away are they?”

“I’d say one day,” Manny answers. “The lighter trucks are scouting ahead. And a big line of armored transport trucks are in their wake. Older ones. I could be wrong, but they were moving steadily this way, and they were coming up.”

“Nobody knows about this camp,” Commander Buckley snorts.

“Nobody but other militias,” Angela corrects. “And you never know when information might leak.”

True. Look at what Harry Lydell did to us.

“It could be Omega,” Chris says. “Or it could be someone worse.”

“Who the hell is worse than Omega?” Commander Jones demands.

“Pirates, gangs, mafias, cartels. Anybody.”

“He’s got a point,” Manny replies. “We should be ready for this. Very ready.”