“Yes, ma’am,” Dad replies. “We had a successful mission.”

“Did you succeed in destroying the supply depot in Sanger?”

“Not entirely.”

“Perhaps we should redefine ‘successful mission,’ then. Honestly, Frank.” She stands up. She’s wearing black slacks and a green military jacket. “Who are these people?”

I shift, staring at the floor. The other men in the room have their eyes trained on Chris and I, and it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world. Conversely, I’ve been through worse.

A lot worse.

So I look up and meet their gazes. The lady with the white hair is the only woman in the room besides me.

“This is my daughter,” Dad says, putting an arm around my shoulders.

“Dear God,” the woman replies, touching her lips. “You found her.”

“And this is Chris Young,” he continues. “Alpha One, Commander of the Freedom Fighters.”

“Alpha One,” the woman smiles, nodding. “Yes, we’ve communicated with you through the Underground. Good to know we have friends in the foothills.” She extends her hand to Chris. “I’m Angela Wright, Commander of the militia Legion. We’ve been here for six months.”

Chris shakes her hand.

“And you’re Cassidy,” she says. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“My what?”

“You’re said to be quite the marksman with a rifle.”

I flush.

“Um, I don’t know.” I look at Chris. He winks. “Who told you that?”

“The Underground isn’t just a source of information,” she smiles. “It’s also an excellent source of gossip.” She starts laughing. “Have a seat, please. And welcome to Camp Freedom, by the way. Let me introduce you to these men here…”

There are three. Commander Jones, Commander Thomas and Commander Buckley. That gives us a grand total of six militia leaders.

“Well, boys,” Angela says. “What happened down there?”

Dad proceeds to explain the situation. How the Freedom Fighters were betrayed and ambushed, how the Rangers backed us up and helped us escape, and how we ended up here.

“And what about the traitor?” Commander Buckley asks. He’s a tall man in his sixties with dark skin and stormy eyes. “Was he killed?”

“Harry?” I reply. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice, actually.”

“And why not?”

“Because I was shot.”

“Damn, you should have killed him,” Buckley states. “He’ll tell Omega everything he knows about you. Your identities, your fighting techniques. Everything.”

“It’s too late to worry about that now,” Angela shrugs. “What’s done is done. Harry Lydell doesn’t know where Camp Freedom is located, and that’s all that matters. Chris Young and Cassidy Hart are safe here.”

Yeah, maybe.

“What about Vika Kamaneva?” Commander Jones asks, a short man with a bulbous nose and enormous shoulders. “Is she dead?”

“She is,” I confirm. “One of the Rangers shot her.”

“Omega is sweeping the foothills heavily for our militias at the moment. I’ve assigned small harassing units to lead them away,” Chris adds. “We were lucky to get out of there alive.”

“But you did,” Angela says. “And that’s all that matters. We’re glad to have you two on board. More manpower is always welcome. Camp Freedom has been growing substantially, and thanks to the ingenuity of the layout of the camp, we’ve eluded Omega’s patrols so far. Our location is well hidden and fortified.”

“Where are you getting your food?” I ask.

“There are stores of emergency supplies here in camp,” Angela replies. “And there’s wild game in the area to provide food, as well as our own domestic animals. Cattle, sheep, chickens and the like. We have several of our own water sources. I’m sure Frank has told you about the generators?”

“Yes. So you have electricity, too?”

“Only when needed. Fuel is a limited commodity at the present. We don’t use artificial light at night. That could be lethal. We don’t want anything to draw Omega’s attention to this area.” She pauses, looking at us thoughtfully. “If you need anything, let me know. I live here, in the loft. These men are scattered throughout the camp in different cabins. Frank can show you where they reside if need be. You’ll enjoy it here.”

“Thank you.”

She nods.

“About how many men did you bring with you, Young?” she asks Chris.

“Just under a hundred.”

“What are their capabilities?”

I hide a grin as Chris replies, “They can

fight. That’s all that matters.”

Angela doesn’t look amused — but she doesn’t look angry, either. So I take that as a fairly positive sign.

“We’re done here, gentlemen,” she announces. “Young? I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.”

I heave a sigh. So formal. Even in the middle of a fortress in the woods.

Chris shakes hands with all of the commanders as Frank and Angela stand to the side, speaking in quiet voices.

“Nice to meet you, Hart,” Commander Buckley says, shaking my hand. “Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you.”

After the commanders leave, Angela approaches me.

“Are you comfortable lodging in the barracks?” she asks.

“Yes, of course,” I reply.

Anything is better than sleeping in the dirt.

“I suggest you go check in with the medical staff, then,” she says, “and make sure your wound is healing properly.”

I glance down self-consciously at the bloody mess that is my shirt.

“Not a bad idea,” I admit. “Where is the medical building?”

“I’ll take you there,” Angela replies, turning to Dad. “I’ll see you at dinner, Frank?”

Dad nods.

“Coming, Chris?” I ask.

“No, you go ahead. I’ll meet you at the chow hall at six.”

Judging by the expressions on Dad and Chris’s faces, they’re itching to get rid of me. They must be waiting to discuss something in private. I wonder what?

“This way,” Angela announces, strapping a belt with a holstered gun around her waist. “It’s not far.”

I follow her outside, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. The meeting with the militia commanders really tired me out. Add to that four days of hiking for our lives through the wilderness and I’m ready to take a weeklong nap.

We cut across the main entrance to the camp, bypassing the old gift shop and general store. A tan colored building surrounded by a white fence sits here. A large red cross is painted across the door.

“Here we are,” Angela announces.

We approach the front door, which is propped open with a rock. Inside, everything is white and sterile. Pictures of flowers and tropical islands dot the walls. I place my hand on the front counter to keep my balance.

I haven’t been exposed to anything so startling clean in almost a year.

It’s enough to make you dizzy.

“Cassidy, I thought you might be stopping by.” Desmond — the field medic — steps out of the back room, looking as disheveled as ever. But at least he’s cheerful. “Let’s get you in here and check you out in a real medical setting.”

I swallow and enter a room with an examination table. White fluorescent lights blind me as I sit down, and I find myself staring at the ceiling like a moth drawn to a flame.

“You’re using electricity,” I state numbly.

“Yes, like I said before, we have our own generators,” Angela says, taking a seat in a chair in the corner. “We also have a sizable industrial battery storage and hydroelectric generators. It gives us light, among other things. And light is very convenient for our doctors. They don’t want to be stitching up wounds in the dark, after all.”

I don’t answer. I’m overwhelmed by the sounds of technology.

A clock ticks on the wall.

The light bulbs on the ceiling are buzzing softly.

An intercom unit on the wall squawks as a medical officer calls to Desmond.

“Take a deep breath and soak it in slowly,” Desmond advises, grinning wryly. “I understand, believe me.” He has me lie down on the table and close my eyes, starting his exam. “When I first came here, I’d been living like a wild savage for months in the mountains. I forgot what artificial light and ticking clocks sounded like, you know?”