Thick clouds cloak this isolated back road in darkness, shrouding what lies ahead, the harsh yellow headlights revealing the last of our journey in quick, shallow increments.
Leaning against the headrest, I angle my neck to watch Mira through the rearview mirror. She lies across the backseat, unmoving, her eyes closed, shutting me out. I pay close attention to her hands. They rest folded over her chest, laced tightly together, but at any moment I fear her fingers will twitch, restless to pull up the lock again.
A piercing light cuts through the dark, and I see a warning sign zoom past my window: “Checkpoint 1/2 Mile. Prepare to Stop.”
“A checkpoint?” I cry out, horrified.
“What?” Mira shoots forward. “You said these rural roads don’t have a Border Guard!” she shouts at Rayla.
Metal road barriers make it impossible for a U-turn escape. Rayla has no choice but to pull in behind a short line of cars.
“Dammit,” she curses angrily under her breath.
Massive floodlights ahead illuminate a makeshift military station—dozens of Guards, a pack of canines, and surveillance cameras in every direction. You will be caught, and you will pay for your crimes, Roth’s cold promise echoes in my mind, turning my thoughts to ice.
This trap was set for us.
Throwing my arms over my head, I duck down in the cramped space underneath the dashboard. Oh God, it’s over. We’re caught. And they’re going to take Mira away from me.
“Get in the trunk.”
Rayla’s fiery order jolts me into action. I desperately lunge for the back of the car, but Mira doesn’t move. She sits frozen as I fold down the middle seat to expose an entryway into the compact trunk. Is she thinking of giving herself up?
“Get in, Mira!” I plead, throwing our bags in first.
The car inches forward in line, every second bringing us closer and closer to detection by the soldiers, the cameras, or the dogs. The canines must know my scent.
Rayla turns to Mira, a dark look of warning in her hard eyes, and I grab hold of Mira’s wrist, imploring her to move. A decision flicks across her face, and she plunges into the opening. I dive in after her and seal ourselves into claustrophobic darkness with fumbling, shaky hands.
Mira and I huddle close together in a ball, limbs overlapping, foreheads pressed together. For a moment all I hear are our fast, terrified breaths and the pounding of my sister’s heart.
Then the car advances once more before it glides to a stop.
I’m able to catch the muted sounds of a soldier’s heavy footsteps followed by the hum of a window rolling down.
“Why hello there, soldier!” I hear Rayla say in a cheerful voice. “I’m surprised to meet you all the way out here.”
“Present your wrist,” the Guard states robotically.
“Of course, of course,” Rayla responds, upbeat and casual.
“Clear your face for the cameras.”
“My apologies, soldier! An old woman’s forgetfulness.” I hear my grandmother release a pleasant chuckle. “At my age, it’s amazing the things that simply vanish from your head. Poof! Gone.”
An actress in her past life. A rebellion member, I think with sudden pride. I visualize Rayla removing her wide-brimmed fedora, a broad smile on her face, while the Guard bends his knees to peer into the empty backseat. Searching. Calculating.
Rayla continues her mindless banter, assaulting the soldier’s patience, hoping he will surrender out of sheer annoyance.
“Is that a German shepherd? Oh, I just love dogs! My mother would tell me stories of how her family used to own one as a pet. Can you imagine that? Some absurd name like Marshmallow . . . or was it Smooches?”
A warning that a dog is approaching the car.
Tens of thousands of our dead skin cells are floating around the backseat—an invisible trail just waiting to be sniffed out. The dog is so close; the antidrone spray can’t mask our scent. If he was given anything of ours to smell—the bedsheets Mira slept on or a uniform I wore—it’s too late to cover our tracks now.
Mira’s knee finds my stomach, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a groan.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Montana?”
Get us out of here, Rayla.
“Well, it’s an unfortunate one, I’m afraid,” Rayla begins. “A dear friend of mine passed away. We knew each other since primary school—oh my, where does the time go? But Penny, God rest her soul, lived a good, honest life—”
“Move along,” the Guard cuts Rayla off with brusque impatience.
Relief washes over me when I hear the window roll up and feel the car shift into drive.
But then a terrifying rattle of a dog leash causes me to seize hold of Mira’s hand. Steeling myself, I squeeze hard, making her knuckles crack. A well-trained nose greedily inhales the exterior of the car, sniffing the tires, door handles, and bumper. A high-pitched whine signals a discovery to his master: She’s here! She’s in the trunk!
No . . . no . . . no . . . This is not the end.
“Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle, immediately!” a second Guard demands aggressively.
“Is that really necessary, soldier? The heat tonight is unbear—”
An eruption of barking and shouting cuts through Rayla’s words—cuts through everything—and suddenly the car rocks with furious paws scratching to get inside. After two heart-crushing blows, the trunk flies open—and the facial recognition cameras instantly recognize Ava Goodwin’s wanted face. Twofold.
Sirens blast, and I struggle to see beyond the blinding spotlights. Snapping canines come into focus. Shouting Guards and a gun pointed at my sister’s forehead.
Through the dense fog of shock and panic, I hear a single hostile command.
“Ava, put your hands up! Put your hands up, now!”
But I will never put my hands up. I will never let go of my sister’s hand.
More Guards rush out of the station to surround the car.
“The system says they’re both Ava Goodwin!” a confused voice shouts.
Everything and everyone combine into one babel of noise screaming in my ears: “Under arrest . . . There are two of them . . . Traitor . . . Put your hands up!”
Rayla presses her foot down hard on the gas. The car surges forward, and Mira’s head collides painfully against mine as we are thrown toward the front of the trunk.
My vision spins, and it takes three cracking pops for me to recognize the soldiers have opened fire. A rain of bullets shatters the rear window in an explosion of glass.
“Get out of the trunk!” Mira yells, dragging me by my shirt collar.
There’s a crashing thud as the car drives straight through the metal barrier. I cover my head and crawl behind Mira on my hands and knees—glass shards stabbing my elbows and thighs—into the backseat.
I pull the compartment entrance closed, blood dripping onto the fabric, the wailing sirens of pursuit preventing me from feeling my wounds.
“How many patrols?” Rayla shouts.
My eyes scour Mira’s face, body, fingers, and feet. She’s not hurt—she’s okay. We both whip around and peer out the broken window. The lid of the trunk bounces out of control with each bump in the road, making it difficult to count the flashing blue lights that chase us in the distance.
Nine? Two? An entire military unit?
“Brace yourselves!” Rayla calls out in warning.
Mira and I cling to the backseat headrests, holding on for dear life, Kipling’s voice chuckling absurdly in my ears, I told you to wear your seat belts.
With a sharp squeal from the tires, the car makes a perilous left turn, and the trunk slams shut, giving me a clear view of the pursuit.
“Five patrols!” I cry, spinning around to make certain she hears. I lean into the empty space between the two front seats, trying to rein in my rapid, frightened breaths. “What are we going to do?” I ask, unable to keep my voice from shaking.
Rayla simply tightens her fingers around the steering wheel, and I follow her stare to a cluster of lights a few miles ahead.
A small town. A possible place to hide.