“Or what?”

“Or I’ll shoot you. Right between the eyes.”

One of the first things I ever said to him during our escape from L.A.

He falters then. For a split second, I see the emotion flickering behind his brilliant green eyes. The realization that everything we’ve been through — everything we have in this moment — might end tonight.

“I love you,” I whisper.

I press my cheek against his vest, wishing I could hear his heart beat through the armor and uniform. I always took such comfort in it during past moments of distress.

And so begins round two.

The beginning of the end doesn’t look or sound anything like I thought it would. There is no lineup of opposing forces on a large field. No long pause as we stare at each other. No trumpet. No epic charge. No horses with chariots or Roman warriors with spears.

It simply begins.

The militia is arranged in a unique pattern. Platoons divided into groups of one hundred have pushed on ahead like the tip of a spear, allowing Chris and I to infiltrate the bubble of advancing Omega troops. The platoons up front bear the brunt of the first assault. The rest of the militia buries itself into the hillside, hiding in the small ravines and ditches. Guerrilla warfare at its finest. This is where our skillset will be applied in the most desperate of situations.

A wall of vehicles and limited tanks block the exit down the interstate at the bottom of the canyon — the Grapevine. And I am lying in the tall grass on the side of a hill, watching the open freeway below us. Chris is near my side. Vera and Angela are with Legion. Derek, Max and Sophia are with one of the platoons closer to the frontlines.

Technically we’re all on the frontlines, but still. They’re closer.

“Watch em’ come around the corner,” Uriah mutters, crouching next to me. “They’ll be expecting something. They know we’re out here.”

“We’ll surprise them anyway.”

He doesn’t look too sure. He flicks his long, slender fingers over the stock of his rifle, taking a position next to me. “We’ll see if your reputation as a great sniper is true or not,” he remarks.

“Don’t get your hopes too high.”

“Hope? I don’t have hope anymore. Just common curiosity.”

I roll my eyes, never pulling my gaze from the scene below. The interstate curves slightly, and where the corner hides the rest of the freeway from sight, a line of soldiers appear. They are not wearing the uniform of an Omega soldier. Their clothing is midnight black, a slash of red on the sleeve. The red is the only distinguishing difference between them and the uniform of a mercenary.

Red in Chinese culture symbolizes joy and happiness, a teacher once told me in High School. That is why brides often wear red wedding dresses in China when they are married.

I watch them closely through my scope, noting their black helmets, boots and vests. Black is considered a neutral color in Chinese culture, the same teacher also said. I stare at their faces. The pale skin. The dark, cropped hair. I grip my rifle much too tight, hit with the feeling that I’m no longer holding a deadly weapon — just a toy.

“Steady,” Chris breathes, holding his hand out. Reminding us to wait.

It is not my job to take the first shot today.

They keep coming around the corner, and I can’t help but think that they look like a leaky faucet. Slowly spreading across the ground. Like water. Like ants.

“Chris…” I say. “There’s got to be at least three hundred right now.”

“Hold.”

I take a deep breath. Uriah is motionless beside me.

I scan the crowd of Chinese with my scope. I can’t pinpoint a leader among this group. Wherever he is, he’s well hidden, and they’re trickling in for a reason. They’re anticipating guerilla war fighters. They’re anticipating us.

I stop looking down the scope for a second. I close my eyes. I say a brief, unspoken prayer that we’ll all come out of this alive, and then I look at Chris.

He’s watching me. Wordlessly. Silently.

The middle of the flood of Chinese troops explodes. I grit my teeth, steeling my nerves. The troops are tossed into the air like rag dolls, sprays of cement and mud and body parts hurling through the air. For the first time, the Chinese seem to realize what we have done.

“Good boy, Max,” Chris says.

Max, Derek, Sophia and the rest of their divided platoons have planted enough land mines on and around the freeway to blow up the forward advancing forces. The smell of smoke and burning flesh waft up the hill. I keep my lips together, not quite enough of a warrior yet to avoid feeling at least a little nauseous from the stench.

The Chinese scatter. It looks like hundreds of red water droplets running down the interstate. It’s obvious to them now that they will have to leave the path of the freeway and climb down the hills themselves if they don’t want to get their legs and arms blown off.

Finally, something actually goes according to plan.

As grim as it is, this is the only way to get the Chinese to deviate from their course and weaken their forces. Drive them into the hills. Drive them straight into our waiting arms, so to speak. Our Blackhawks and smaller aircraft are keeping the long distance Omega troops at bay — keeping us from being pummeled by bombs and rockets.

It takes an enormous amount of effort to force my body to remain still, to quit trembling. The Chinese hit a few more landmines. The screaming and confusion is palpable from my vantage point in the tall grass. They disperse off the interstate in squad formations and begin climbing through the hillside, many of them struck with horror. Some approach at a full sprint, foolishly believing that if they’re moving fast enough, they won’t set off any landmines.

Only a few are that stupid, though. Some of them still linger at the sides of the freeway, wary of leaving the path. They’re not all idiots. They know what’s waiting out here. I’m sure they’ve all been briefed by their commanding officers on the threat of guerilla war fighters in the central valley.

Yeah, we’re definitely as dangerous as they told you we’d be.

As soon as the thought floats through my brain, a group of fifty Chinese start climbing the side of my hill, scaling it nearly on hands and knees. It’s steep enough to make it difficult to walk, and at the same time, draw them closer to us.

“God,” Uriah whispers, “they’re actually falling for it.”

I don’t reply. The Chinese are pouring over the sides of the interstate, spreading over the hillside by the hundreds. They send sacrificial scouts fifty yards in front of the body of troops to make sure there are no landmines planted in the dirt.

There’s not, but they don’t know that.

This pattern is repeated for two hours. Two hours of waiting motionless on my stomach, barely daring to breathe. Our entire platoon is comprised of riflemen from our militia, many of them with a skillset far greater than mine.

“I think it’s time, mate,” Uriah says, glancing at Chris.

“I agree.”

He gives a wordless signal to our snipers in the grass, and I lick my chapped lips. Why didn’t I take another sip of water from my canteen? I had two hours to do it. Too late now.

Warfare doesn’t wait.

Chris takes the first shot, as always. And that shot is the signal to begin the attack. The Chinese have merged by the thousands into the canyon, all of them driven off the road, into the grassy slopes. Right into a box, unknowingly surrounded on all sides by the National Guard. Not to mention the Air Force, if we need them.

The first shot hardly fazes the Chinese. They look around, almost dazed, searching the hillside for the fool that could have accidentally fired a shot.