Flawed (22 page)

Worry. Worry. Worry
. Her thumb rubbed faster against the little round rock.

She—
they
—needed to pull themselves together. Ellyssa wanted it all to change. Not to forget, but to react. Somehow she needed to help, but her inexperience, her awkwardness, kept the right words out of reach.

She glanced at Rein. His face sagged in intense sorrow and his eyes glimmered with wetness. Gently, his hand tightened around hers. He returned her gaze. His lower lip quivered.

“I love you,” he said, his voice soft.

She closed her eyes. Those three words burned through her despair, finding their rightful home in her heart. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them. Rein was her support. Her reason. Her hope.

Opening her eyes to Rein’s face, Ellyssa saw faith flicker beneath the sadness. He hadn’t given up.

“I love you,” she breathed.

His lips curled into a sad smile as he draped his arm over her shoulder. “Welcome back.”

“I really didn’t go anywhere.”

“I know.”

Shoving the little cave pearl into her pocket, Ellyssa took a deep breath and stood. Her arms splayed under the rocking motion, she made her way past the containers to Trista, not saying anything; Woody gave her a wistful look and scooted over. Ellyssa took the offered space.

“Trista, I don’t want you to hurt,” Ellyssa said, placing a hand on Trista’s shoulder. A shudder swept through her friend as she whimpered. “I understand how you feel.”

Trista turned her head to the side and shot Ellyssa a glare through wet eyelashes. “No, you don’t,” she stated. She hid her face back in the crook of her arms.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Ellyssa sought the right words. None came. “We have to continue,” she tried again. “You have to find the strength.”

“Just leave me alone.”

Letting her hand drop, she returned to Rein.

For the next hour, time lost meaning with the drone of the tires; Ellyssa felt the air begin to change. As Dyllon continued driving down the old farm-to-market road, Trista’s sobs became less frequent, and Woody started to chamber rounds into the AK-47s, magazines, his shaky hands fumbling with the cartridges. Minutely, life had started to push away the oppressive gloom of death.

Unexpectedly, Trista’s head whipped up, her eyes red and raw. “Pull over,” she ordered.

The suddenness of Trista’s voice punctured the weakening bubble of despondency, and it seemed as if the van breathed out a sigh of relief.

“What?” asked Dyllon, his head swiveling back and forth as he looked into the side mirrors. “What’s wrong? Did you see something?” His voice edged on panic.

She turned to look at him, her face set stubbornly and her eyes burning with a fire of determination. “No. I’m supposed to be driving. What if we get pulled over?”

“Are you sure?” Dyllon asked. “Are you feeling better?”

“No, I’m not feeling better. Two more of my friends died. But I’m not going down like this. None of us are.” Her eyes turned toward Ellyssa. “We have to continue. Now stop the van.”

Dyllon did as instructed, tires grating on the pebbles as the van came to a halt. Trista slipped out the passenger side. Dyllon climbed out and met her up front. She paused as he said something, his deep voice carrying on the wind, then Trista flung herself into his arms. Stroking her hair, Dyllon’s mouth moved against her ear and she nodded. By the time she pulled away, a small smile softened her face. He grinned back at her, and in that moment, Ellyssa saw what Detective Angela Petersen had seen, although the detective had refuted her attraction. The male had a wonderful smile that reflected in his eyes. With a renewed bounce in her step, Trista walked to the driver’s side and looked into the back of van.

“What?” Trista said, popping onto the seat. “Why are you all looking at me?”

Ellyssa couldn’t see Woody’s face, but she knew her and Rein’s jaws had gone slack.

“Nothing,” Rein said, a hesitant smile surfacing.

Maybe, for the moment, Rein had forgotten his dislike for Dyllon. The way Trista had turned seemed to do wonders for them all, as if the sun shone through bleak clouds carrying a ray of hope.

Trista waved him off and started to bark orders. “We have things to do, and bastards that need to pay. They have to pay.” She pointed at Woody. “Change places with Dyllon. If they found his car, they might be looking for him. His picture is probably plastered all over by now.” Woody scrambled up front as she motioned to Dyllon. “Grab the K100 out of the bag. No, not that one. The one with the suppressor. Load it. Wait, you need to strip. I need your clothes.”

Pride lifted the rest of Ellyssa’s spirit as she watched Trista transform from someone sinking in a sea of despair to someone with a take-charge attitude, completely Trista-style, her emotions an ever-changing tide. Her friend had gone through a lot, witnessing her friends murdered in cold blood to losing the people who took her in during her time of need and, yet, she’d managed to climb out of the pit of sorrow.

Dyllon sputtered, “What?”

“I don’t think my pink sweater and jeans are regulation.”

“What am I supposed to wear? And the credentials have you as an inspector, not area police.”

“Don’t you like my outfit?”

Dyllon just stared at her.

Woody snickered, and a little more of the cloud evaporated. “Trista,” he said, “there is no reason for anyone to give up their clothes.” He reached into the knapsack and pulled out a black roll. “Here.” He handed it to her.

Flashing Woody a grateful smile, Trista said, “You think of everything.”

She popped out of the van for a couple of minutes and returned wearing a wrinkled uniform of the
Gestapo
. Two bars on the collar glinted under the light.

“It looks terrible,” Trista said, poking the pink of her sweater inside the collar as she looked in the rearview mirror. “And I don’t have the overcoat or the gun. I’m guessing you don’t have either of those shoved in the bag.”

Woody shook his head. “Nope, sorry. I was kind of in a hurry.”

“Well, we will just have to make do. And people will still be losing clothing. You and Dyllon need to switch.”

Dyllon glanced at Woody. “She’s right. You could pass for one of the patrols if they don’t look too closely.”

Woody opened his mouth, but then clamped it shut. He yanked the T-shirt over his head and handed it to Dyllon. The muscles in his stomach and arms rippled as he stood to unbutton his pants. Warmth creeping up her neck, Ellyssa averted her eyes and kept them focused on her hands as the males switched clothing.

“This smells,” Woody stated, the tunic pulled up to his nose.

“I had to run through the woods and a dark tunnel. Besides, your clothes don’t smell like a basket of roses either.”

“Are you guys done?” Trista asked. “We need to be moving. And I still don’t have a loaded gun.” She nodded at Dyllon, her eyes dropping to the weapon.

“One sec.” Rein stood and crouch-walked toward the front of the van. “I have something to show you,” he said to Ellyssa. “With everything…” He paused. “It just didn’t happen. You remember how I told you about the hiding place?”

“Yes.”

“It’s under here.” He pushed a box over and a panel slid back. “It will fit three.”

Hunched over, Ellyssa moved toward him and looked at the enclosed space.
Another coffin
, she thought with dismay. The Renegades seemed to move supplies easily, years of hits and misses and learning, but when it came to people, their solution was shoving them in cramped places like sardines.

Ellyssa hated having her freedom to move, to react, restricted. And this was worse than the box Tim had hidden her in, or hiding under the seat when Trista had taken them to Tim’s and Sarah’s. The false bottom hidden in the floor of the van called for entering feet first and sliding downward, like slipping between sheets. It would be easy, if they were discovered, for the police, or whoever, to open the compartment and shoot them all in the head. Not wanting to think what would happen if they ran into trouble, Ellyssa moved back to the rear of the van.

“As my father used to say, time to blow this Popsicle stand.” Trista moved the lever to drive. The van jolted forward at a slow, steady pace.

Rein’s deep laugh broke through the remaining clouds. It was a beautiful sound. Woody’s and Dyllon’s mingled with his.

Ellyssa had no idea what Popsicles or stands had to do with anything. But she laughed along with everyone else, and it felt good, a stress relief.

At that moment, Ellyssa held no doubt that their missing family was alive and that they would find them. And when they found them, Ellyssa would make sure they were all reunited. As Trista said, there were people who had to pay.

Their group was strong, fueled by emotions.

Ellyssa squeezed Rein’s hand.

As Mathew walked between the two escorting soldiers, he felt the eyes of fellow prisoners follow his trek across the compound, their heads staying downcast so not to be caught. In their thin coats and ragged boots, they carried rocks and stacked them in a field adjacent to the Commandant’s office.

At least the day was warmer, even with the grey wispy clouds that floated across the sky, fracturing the sunlight in bent rays. Patches of snow littered the walkway, slowly transforming into slush. A constant drip sounded as drops of water fell from the gutters to the ground below.

A line of soldiers stood watch over the slave labor, rifles cradled in the crooks of their arms. Next to them, shadowed within the overhang of the building of death—the vent clear of smoke for the time being—stood the sergeant-at-arms. Mathew wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but his skin crawled as if the steely blue eyes of the sergeant raked over him. He faltered, which earned him a poke with a muzzle.

“Get going,” said the soldier.

Tearing his gaze away from the shadowy figure of the sergeant, Mathew’s eyes settled on the thick stone barricade that separated the females from the males. Behind the wall, he could hear a female yelling orders to her wards. The voice held a hard, authoritative edge.

Mathew wondered if his plan would work. If he’d be able to save any of them. His gaze shifted away.

The building housing the Commandant’s office loomed at the end of the pathway, and Mathew was on his way to become a traitor.

Commandant Baer was leaning back in his chair when Mathew entered. Without looking up, he waved Mathew toward the chair. “Sit,” he said.

Mathew took the proffered seat and watched the Commandant shuffle papers into a neat, orderly pile. “Well?” said Commandant Baer, leveling his gaze at Mathew. “Have you decided to provide me with the information I seek?”

Nausea rolled in Mathew’s stomach, but he lifted his chin. He was going to do what he had to do, and technically, he wasn’t providing information about the Renegades or their contacts.

He still felt like a traitor, though.

“You wish to know about Ellyssa?”

Leaning back in the chair, the Commandant folded his hands across his midsection. “Yes.”

Mathew studied the officer for a moment. As always, the Commandant wore his dark blue
Waffenrock
neatly, the red piping lined straight, the armband bearing the swastika wrinkle-free. He knew Commandant Baer wanted the information. He just hoped the want exceeded his so-called moral duties. Mathew swallowed.

“I will provide the information to you. But it will come at a cost.”

Commandant Baer shook his head, his eyebrows rising in amusement. Mathew guessed this was the first time any prisoner had had the audacity to offer information with a price tag. Hell, it was probably the first time a prisoner had offered information ever.

“No deals.”

“Okay,” Mathew said, shrugging. “Then I guess there is nothing to talk about.” He started to stand.

“Remember, Doc,” the Commandant said, his eyes cold and calculating, “you might be safe, but your friends are not.”

Lids narrowing, Mathew boldly placed his hands on the Commandant’s enormous desk. “You do what you have to do,” he stated with a lot more courage than the sinking feeling in his chest should have permitted. “I will not cave. Most would be better off dead than the conditions they are living in now.” He turned away, the door his next destination.

“Wait,” the Commandant said.

Mathew stopped, his heart pattering like mad. He kept his back to the officer.

“Maybe we could reach some form of agreement.”

“I’m listening.”

“Sit,” the commander ordered. “Let’s talk.”

Facing the Commandant, Mathew walked slowly back to the green chair, the thumping in his chest deafening to his ears. This was it. Sink or swim.

“What do you propose?”

“First, tell me if any more women have…been put out of their misery.”

“None.”

Settling into a false air of confidence, Mathew scooted back in the chair, his eyes never leaving the Commandant’s. If he flinched or look away, the cards would shift sides.

“Then my proposal is this. No one else dies.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I want everyone to have warm clothes and new boots. I’ve seen the stacks of clothes you have; there is plenty, especially with the depleted numbers. And more food. There is no reason to starve a man.”