Chapter 21
“Who did I piss off to get assigned as your handler? It takes more than balls to do this work. Patience is essential, and you have none. Stick to your assignment. That was good info in your last drop.” Decoded message from ILF handler Hiro Tanaka to ILF undercover operative Nightingale
Marcus
Ingrid is calculating. She’s giving me only the information I need, and nothing more. I’ve been trying to prove I’m loyal to the cause, but she’s a fortress.
She spent the entire morning briefing me in a tightly secured meeting room at the island’s main base. Island Three is large. What I could see when I first arrived was just the beginning. The base is massive, but I haven’t been able to access most of it.
Lunch was a buffet that wasn’t just for me, Ingrid, and Tyrone, but all the commanding officers. There were at least three dozen of them, all feasting on elaborate pasta dishes, rich soups, salads, steaks, and even ice cream.
“Been a while since you had ice cream? ” Tyrone asks, taking the chair next to mine in the dining area.
Some people are finishing up their desserts, and coffee is being served. We get limited coffee in our shipments, and we save it until there’s enough for everyone to have a cup. That coffee is nothing like the coffee on Island Three, though. It’s velvety and has a hint of dark chocolate.
“Yeah, it has,” I say. “You guys have a great thing going here. It’s impressive.”
Tyrone is a Black man I’d guess is close to my age, which is thirty. I had a birthday a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t tell anyone. He’s tall and fit, his head shaved close to the scalp. He reminds me of Malachi, one of my college football teammates I was close to.
“It’s a team effort,” he says. “This is a coveted assignment compared to anything on the mainland. Well, outside the Capitol, I mean. Everyone wants to work with President Whitman.”
“Absolutely. I’m in a news blackout where I’m at, what’s happening on the mainland?”
He shrugs. “You know how it is. They’re always putting out fires. Rebellions, tax enforcement, that kind of thing.”
“Tax enforcement?”
“Not working isn’t an excuse not to pay taxes. Some people need education on that.”
I’m sure Whitman’s idea of “education” involves bodily harm. He knows how to control people—threatening their basic needs to extract compliance.
“Nobody said maintaining order would be easy, right?” I quip.
“That’s right. President Whitman is still expanding New America. That costs a lot, but it’s well worth it.”
I shake my head, doing my best to appear wowed. “All of us owe him a debt of gratitude we can never repay.”
“Well said.”
Ingrid is standing nearby, giving me an appreciative look.
“Ready to finish?” she asks me.
“Absolutely.”
She leads the way back to the meeting room, Tyrone and I following. Ingrid isn’t much on small talk, which is fine by me, because it means less bullshitting.
Once we’re inside the room and the door is closed, she doesn’t sit down. She’s giving me a look that I think is apprehensive, if I’m reading it right. It makes my gut churn nervously.
“I think we’ve covered everything you need for now,” she says. “You’ll need to name a successor. Do you have anyone in mind?”
“Nova Kern.”
“We’ll find her fingerprint in the system and make the change.”
“Great. So I’ll be heading back to my island, then?”
I’ll be back with Briar by tonight. I’ve missed her and the rest of my command team. Niran can be impulsive, but she always has my back. Nova and Ellison are my family. All of them are, really.
“Tomorrow,” Ingrid says, studying me. “You’re not entirely finished here.”
She’d make a good horror movie villain. I can never get a read on her I fully trust. Every minute I’ve been here, I’ve been on edge, not sure if she’s going to offer me a drink or have me handcuffed and dragged to a cell.
She slides out of her olive-green jacket, leaving her in just a white T-shirt. Whatever this is, I don’t like it.
She turns her forearm over to display a tattoo of the New America flag. It covers the half of her arm nearest to her elbow, the colors stark against her pale skin.
“Holy shit.” The words fly out of my mouth before I have time to consider them, but I recover quickly, saying, “That’s incredible.”
“You’ll be getting one. It’s something we’ve started giving all our command officers.”
I don’t hesitate because my life depends on her believing I’m entirely loyal to the regime. “I’d love to. Wow. I don’t even know what to say.”
I do know what to say, and it’s fuck this cultish bullshit. The last thing I want permanently inked onto my body is that flag. It sickens me.
“Just a little parting gift,” Ingrid says, looking pleased with herself. “Tyrone has one of his own.”
He unbuttons his jacket and pulls the collar of his T-shirt down to reveal the dark words inked on one of his pecs.
Peace. Order. Prosperity.
“Nice,” I say, wanting to puke into the nearest trash can.
I honestly don’t know which one is worse. New America loyalists calling what they do peace is a joke.
“You can get whichever one you want,” Ingrid says, putting her jacket back on.
“Can I get both?” I quip.
“You may,” Ingrid says,
“I want the flag.” I deserve an Oscar for the enthusiasm I’m selling. “The one on my island was destroyed by a storm.”
The storm was me, taking it with me when I left Rising Tide because McClain and I had met secretly and agreed we had to stop what was happening there. I burned it, making sure there was nothing left but ashes.
“We’ll send flags back with you.” She glances at the communication device on her hip, which looks like a cell phone. “Tyrone will take you to get your ink this afternoon, but first, there’s something I want to show you.”
I just nod, reminding myself to stay stoic and entitled. Too much fake enthusiasm may give me away.
Ingrid leads the way outside, where a vehicle that looks like a militarized golf cart waits for us with a driver. It’s small, only holding four people, but fully enclosed with the windows down to let air flow through.
Ingrid reads something on the screen of her communication device and shakes her head. “Why don’t women understand that our president is empowering them?” she asks no one in particular. “Those who don’t wish to serve must bear children. We have no future without more children.”
“There’s no greater calling than motherhood,” Tyrone says.
“Do you have children, Commander Wells?” Ingrid asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. “We don’t track paternity. Procreation is our priority, though.”
Nothing disturbed me more than the system the regime had us set up for Rising Tide. Mindless rutting. Women giving birth to babies not knowing who fathered them and then having those newborns sent to a building where they’re raised and trained.
The thought of fathering children in that place and then abandoning them was too much for me to stomach. Active aromium has always made me crave sex like a junkie craves a hit, but I never gave in until Briar.
I mentally map as many details of the base as I can. It’s so perfectly maintained that it feels sterile. The landscapers tending to the grounds remind me of Kira. Almost robotic. It’s eerie.
Guards open iron gates as we approach a large, nondescript white building. The driver drops us off in front of wide steel double doors. I clock the heavy metal bar on the inside of the building that could be used to bar the entrance closed.
The interior is the same superclean, forgettable white as the rest of the buildings here. Ingrid leaves Tyrone and me behind in the lobby as she goes to talk to someone behind a desk. Then she motions us to join her.
“I think you’re going to like this, Commander Wells,” she says.
I fake a smile, knowing whatever it is, I’m definitely going to hate it.
We walk into a courtyard that’s enclosed by the building.
It’s about the size of a football field, with a track around the perimeter, basketball and tennis courts, and landscaping.
Kids and young adults are clustered in small groups.
Some are running and others are playing basketball, but most are just talking and laughing.
It kind of seems like recess at a private school. I never would have guessed all these young people were on this island, where everything is ordered and precise.
“We’re about five minutes away from some serious rain,” Tyrone says, looking up at the gray sky.
I follow his gaze. “Yep. We usually get at least one afternoon shower a day.”
I wasn’t paying attention to the two people walking over to us. When Ingrid clears her throat and I look over at them, there’s a uniformed guard and ...
Holy fucking shit. My jaw dislodges and air lodges in my throat.
It’s me. My body, my face, my hair. He’s wearing different clothes than I am, but other than that, I’m looking at a mirror image of myself.