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“Long story.” She set the rifle in the corner, took the sandwich Jolene had brought. It was the kind from a gas station, tired-looking and wrapped in plastic, and the purple light wasn’t flattering.

“He ever kill anyone? Your ex?”

“Yes.”

“Think you can?”

Natalie hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to imagine that all day. But imagining isn’t the same.”

“You know, I’ve shot thousands of people. Maybe tens of thousands.” She sat down heavily and smiled. “I play a lot of video games. Don’t think it will help. You got people here?”

“My kids. Nick. You?”

“My niece. Her momma left her with me when she was three, never came back. Kaylee’s nine and speaks eleven languages. Says she sees words as colors, so it doesn’t matter which language, she just uses the colors. Isn’t that something?”

“Yes,” Natalie said. “It really is.”

“And because of that, those men out there, they want to kill her.” Her voice was suddenly cold. “Oh, I know, it isn’t that simple. They lost people too, they’re scared, hurting. But you know what? It is that simple. Get me?”

Natalie took a bite of her sandwich. The bread was stale, the meat indeterminate, the lettuce like Kleenex. It was maybe the best thing she’d ever tasted. She thought of Todd, standing with his arm around his little sister; of Kate’s too-wise eyes.

It doesn’t matter that you’ll be aiming at human beings. It doesn’t matter that they have thoughts and feelings and parents and children.

And it doesn’t matter what happens to you. Not at all.

There are only two things that matter.

“Yeah,” she said. “I get you.”

CHAPTER 33

Hawk was trying very hard not to cry.

Could it really only have been this afternoon that he’d been sitting in his bedroom with John Smith, the two of them talking like confidants? There had been that perfect moment at the end, when John put a hand on his shoulder, and for a second he didn’t feel like a little kid whose mom had been killed, he felt like a soldier, a revolutionary. The kind of man he’d always wanted to be. Strong, determined, important.

Then the soldiers, the gunfire and screams. Wriggling through that endless tunnel. The woman pointing a shotgun, the way his throat had closed up and warmth had run down his leg, soaking all the way into his sweat sock. For years he’d daydreamed about action, had kept his vigil, but the moment actual danger had presented itself, he’d peed himself and run away.

John told you to. He wanted you to get away.

There was some comfort in that, but not much. First they’d killed his mom, now John. He hated them, hated them all so much, and now here he was running down a tunnel, head held low so he didn’t bang it into the pipes and wires above, jeans wet and cold, and the part of him that was still a little boy really wanted to cry, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t let himself.

Eventually his legs and lungs gave out, and he had to stop. Hawk bent over and braced his hands on his knees, sucking in gasps of air, the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. He had to think, had to start acting like a man.

Step one was getting out of the tunnels. The dusty smell of them, the pale light and hum of cables were making him sick. He set off at a walk, and a quarter mile later he’d found another ladder. When he climbed up, he found himself in a maintenance hut just like the other one, a small space lined with tools and spare parts. No windows, no way to tell where he was except to open the door and step out.

It was chilly in wet jeans and a T-shirt. He wrapped his arms around himself, blinked at the late afternoon sun. After the subterranean dimness, it made his eyes water. There were honks and yells, a line of cars crawling east. The sidewalk was crowded with people with their arms full, their kids on their shoulders.

Hawk thought about asking what was going on, but couldn’t figure out who to talk to, everyone seemed to be in such a hurry. And there were his pee-soaked jeans to consider. Better to figure it out himself.

He wasn’t sure where he was exactly, but near the edge of town. Everyone else was headed the opposite direction of where he wanted to go. He needed to get out of Tesla, not deeper into it. He started walking, dodging between people, muttering, “Excuse me,” without looking anyone in the eye. There was a big intersection ahead. When they’d gotten here, Mom had made him memorize all the major streets in Tesla. She’d said that the first rule of being a revolutionary was knowing the lay of the land. While a lot of the stuff she’d taught him had been fun, this one had felt more like homework. He’d never imagined he might actually need it.