“Yeah, fine. You?”

“Good. Something’s going on with Ramos, though.”

“I know.”

Something slams into my right shoulder, smashing me against the warehouse wall. I see stars and lose my balance, falling to the side. Sophia yells something and I hear a loud thud. I scramble to my feet, an Omega trooper right above us. He’s using the stock of his rifle to attack us, which means he must be out of ammo. Blood and soot is smeared all over his face.

I roll out of the way, narrowly avoiding a painful encounter with his boot. By the time I manage to climb to my feet, he’s already attacking Sophia. I slam the stock of my own weapon into the back of his neck. He screams and stumbles, hitting the warehouse. I hit him again and, as he falls, Sophia plants a deadly kick to his head. He goes limp.

“Dead?” Sophia breathes.

“No. Unconscious.”

Panting, I kneel down and dig through his pockets. Nothing. The dude is out of weapons. I turn my attention to the far side of camp. Chris is fighting side by side with Alexander. Max is doing the same and it looks like Derek is joining in.

“We should help,” I say.

“I don’t know. Neither of us can fight like that.”

As we speak, liberated prisoners start running out of the containment units. There can’t be more than fifty people, but it’s enough. They overwhelm what’s left of Omega’s defense, making our job a lot easier. No more than ten minutes later, the supply center is nothing but a smoking memorial to Omega’s disgusting labor camp. Their men are either dead or disappeared — most of them dead. Burning embers are littered across the ground. Ashes are falling from the sky, coating my hair and skin. Dead troopers are everywhere. Several of our own militiamen are sprawled across the parking lot at unnatural angles. Fiery blazes are spreading across the edges of the property, crawling towards the buildings.

I bend down and gag, overwhelmed with the stench of burning flesh and human blood. My vision blurs with tears. This is the reality of war. Horrible killing. Chris is walking towards me through the smoke, his face covered with black smudge marks and sweat. He kneels beside me and places an arm around my shoulders. “You did good, kid,” he says, pressing his lips against my temple. “I’m proud of you.”

I cling to his arm as we stand up together. Refugees are piling into commandeered Omega pickups as fast as they can. Supplies are being stuffed in with them, to be packed into our own vehicles back at the rally point. Militiamen are planting more explosives around the buildings. They’ll detonate as we leave — which needs to be soon if we want to make a clean exit before Omega brings in backup.

“I had it!” Alexander growls from behind us.

His expression is lethal. Chris keeps his arm around me, undeterred.

“We’ll talk later,” he states. “Get in the truck.”

The veins are bulging in Alexander’s neck. He’s furious. I watch as he stalks away towards the truck. Chris’s grip on me is unbreakable as he leads me back towards another truck.

“What was that all about?” I croak, my throat dry from all the smoke.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t lie to me, Chris.”

“I’m not.” He opens the car door. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises. “Good job.”

I crawl across the seat and settle down in the passenger side of the cab, kicking out trash and empty water bottles. By the time Chris jumps in the truck and revs the engine, we’ve got at least seven new vehicles, half of those loaded with fuel and food. It’s an epic win. Chris floors it, and as we hit the road, the explosives detonate, turning what’s left of the property into smoking ruins. I hold my head in my hands, bracing myself for the aftershock of emotions that will definitely come once the adrenaline rush wears off.

Tonight we sent a message to Omega.

The hunted have become the hunters.

Coming back to camp is like returning home from deployment. Granted, our deployment only lasted a few hours, but you get the point. The Young family and Isabel are waiting for us, along with other members of the militia who stayed behind to guard the camp. The rush of adrenaline is still simmering in my blood, keeping my senses sharp. It should wear off soon.

When our truck pulls into camp, a pickup screeches up beside us. Alexander kills the engine on his pickup and storms out of his vehicle, slamming the door behind him. He stalks around the front of our truck and confronts Chris. I scramble out of the car and run around the pickup bed just as Chris steps out of the vehicle.

“Why did you do that?” Alexander demands. “I had the situation under control!”

The other pickups are pulling into camp. The militiamen are high on victory, laughing and grinning. A sudden hush falls over the crowd as they notice the confrontation going down between Chris and Alexander.

“You had a situation,” Chris replies calmly, “but you didn’t have it under control.”

“What was all that crap about ‘the best soldier can improvise?’” Alexander hisses, getting in Chris’s face. “I improvised, Young, and you screwed it up.”

“You were making a mistake.” Chris crosses his arms. “Go see to your men. We’ll discuss this later when we debrief.”

Little Isabel pokes her face out of the crowd and runs towards me, wrapping her arms around my waist in a hug. I kiss the top of her head, holding my breath.

“I won’t forget this,” Alexander warns, rolling his shoulders back.

“Good. Don’t.” Chris closes the pickup door. “And one more thing.”

Alexander raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t question my orders in combat again,” Chris says quietly. “You’re dismissed.”

It’s not insulting. Just a reminder of who’s in charge.

Alexander stalks away, the vein in the center of his forehead bulging, his face a dark shade of red. Almost purple. The entire militia has their eyes on Alexander as he shoves his way through the crowd, swearing under his breath. Yet he doesn’t continue to argue with Chris, and that alone is the deciding factor in this mini-mutiny moment. Chris calmly unfolds his arms and takes a look around the camp. People disperse, whispering under their breath. I meet Chris’s gaze.

“You handled that well,” I comment, forcing a smile.

He nods.

Mrs. Young pushes her way through the crowd, reaching for Chris. It’s one of those rare moments when her long gray hair is hanging loose to her shoulders, framing her petite face.

“Chris,” she says, embracing her son. “You’re safe. Thank God.”

Chris doesn’t reply. He just hugs her back and closes his eyes.

“I’m glad you’re safe, too, Cassie,” Mrs. Young adds, pulling me into a hug.

“And I’m sad I had stay behind and guard this stupid campsite,” Jeff sighs from the corner of the tent. “Did I miss all the action?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing like death and blood to put some pep in your step,” I reply.

He rolls his eyes. Whatever. He’ll see what it’s like soon enough.

“What was Alexander upset about?” I ask, crossing my arms. “I mean, I could be wrong here, but he wasn’t exactly stoked about our victory.”

The militiamen are unloading the commandeered trucks. Everything from water bottles to boxes of canned goods have been confiscated from the labor camp — plus, we’ve got nearly fifty hungry new recruits if the liberated prisoners decide to join us and fight.

“Alexander has a different style than I do,” Chris says, taking a seat on a camping chair. He pulls his hair loose from his ponytail, letting his long hair frame his face. “It’s not entirely his fault — I was trained the same way, but the difference between us is that I’m looking at our group as a rescue unit rather than a kill squad.”

“I have no idea what you mean by any of that,” I state, squeezing next to him on the chair. “Explain, please?”