The Thrust (2 page)

Clarissa shook her head. Trent was not a wolf, he was not a danger. At some point she’d have to learn to trust men again.

Roy had been a good man, after all.

They walked in silence up the hill to Trent’s modest home.

The living room was dark but cozy when they entered.

“I’ll get the fire going,” Trent said.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Nah. Let me take care of you tonight.” Trent smiled, but Clarissa’s heart raced.

He’d meant it to be nice, of course, but she didn’t want to be indebted to anyone. Especially not if she was sleeping under his roof.

“I want to help. Let me clean the fish.”

Trent raised his eyebrows. “Go relax. I insist.”

He was buttering her up, trying to make her drop her defenses. For what purpose?

“I think . . .” Clarissa looked at the door behind her. “I think I’ll sleep outside tonight. I’m used to camping. No need for me to intrude on you.”

She reached for the door but Trent stopped her with a look. Not an angry look, just a look of . . . confusion.

“Am I so terrifying to you?” Trent whispered. “What did I do to scare you, Clarissa?”

The door, freedom from expectation, of the possibility of getting hurt, beckoned. But so did this man. A good man. Annie’s brother.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll stay. It’s nothing you did, I’m just . . . not used to nice guys, that’s all.”

“You’re making me scared for my sister,” Trent said softly.

“Yes,” Clarissa said. “I’m scared for Annie too. I wish we could have taken her with us, but with her broken leg . . . she wouldn’t have made it.”

Trent knelt by the fireplace and struck his flint into the kindling on the bottom until it sparked. He blew on the glowing embers gently until a flame emerged from the ashes.

“How did she break her leg?”

Clarissa settled on the couch and watched him work. “A soldier pushed her onto the Tracks. Just left her there. It took three of us to get her back up, and without proper medical care, without proper nutrition . . . it’s just not healing right.”

The muscles in his back seemed to tense under his tight T-shirt as he stared into the fire, not looking at her.

“I want to kill whoever did that to Annie.”

“Maybe you’ll have your chance. When we go back to liberate her.”

Suddenly, Trent turned to face her. “Clarissa, I need to know. Did those men . . . did they . . .”

“Did they rape her?” Clarissa finished for him when the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not my place to tell you those things, Trent. You’ll get to talk to her soon yourself, I know it.”

“What about you?”

Clarissa’s cheeks burned, she felt ashamed, even though she knew it wasn’t something to be ashamed about. “A lot of the men there have lost their sense of what’s right and what’s wrong. Why talk about it? Why reopen fresh wounds?”

“I want to know what happened to my sister, that’s all.”

“But you asked about me.” Clarissa tucked her knees into her chest.

“I’m sorry.” Trent got up from the fire and went into the kitchen, returning with the fish and a pan. “It’s none of my business.”

“Well, it’s good to know what we’ll be walking into when we go back to Grand Central,” Clarissa said. “The women there won’t know who to trust. If we march in with guns blazing, they might cling to what they know and want to stay. Who knows? Colonel Lanche has done a great job of convincing everyone that the only safe place is in his camp.”

“Like brainwashing, huh?” Trent flipped the fish over the fire, and the scent of dinner in the air made Clarissa’s stomach rumble.

“Yeah, like brainwashing. Indoctrinating, almost. He gives speeches all the time, scares the shit out of everyone. Reminds us all how lucky we are to be among the survivors and to have him protecting us.”

“If the UN’s really taking over America, he’ll capitalize on that,” Trent said. “Use an outside threat to make the people cling to his authority even more.”

“Think people will consider the world’s peacekeepers a threat, though? Aren’t they supposed to help?”

“If by
help
you mean putting America under international law, yeah, they could see the globalists as a threat. Rightfully so. We would lose everything that makes America the home of the free.”

“Is it even really happening?” she wondered.

“Who knows. Maybe the President allowed the radio to be taken over just to get everyone focused. Maybe it’s a psyop.”

Psyop.

“I don’t know what that is,” she admitted.

Trent dropped a crispy fish onto a plate and handed it to her with a fork, keeping one for himself. “Watch out for the bones.”

He took a bite of the white, flaky fish, savoring it in his mouth before answering. “A psyop is a psychological operation—a specific kind of military operation. They do things, put messages out, stage events, that sort of thing, to influence how the enemy reacts.”

“But we’re not the enemy,” Clarissa said.

Trent laughed. “They’re not supposed to use psyops on Americans. But they probably weren’t supposed to set up a camp where the women were all systematically abused, either. So I’m not giving them the benefit of the doubt, forgive me.”

Clarissa ate her fish in silence, listening. “Maybe the speeches Colonel Lanche gave, all those public punishments at the big clock in the main terminal . . . maybe that was all a psyop too, then. To get us to obey. To be afraid.”

“Never say never. But you also have to realize . . . the United Nations, they have psyops too. If this is real, if they are invading, that explains the radio broadcasts from them trying to get our cooperation. If everyone in America is lulled into thinking that they’re just here to help, then we leave the door wide open for them. They won’t even have to kill us to take over, because we’ll be letting them in with open arms.”

She’d been so hungry her fish was already gone.

“If you’re still hungry, I’ve got apples,” Trent offered. “Let me get you one.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Psyops. What a world.

“Trent,” she called. “What if they really are here to help? The UN?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said. “And I hope to God I don’t see it. They’ll stay far away from Letliv if they know what’s good for them.”

Trent sounded so territorial, so protective of his town.

“Why would it be so bad, to have help come?” she asked.

“They have a long history of taking things over, forcing laws made by unelected authorities on citizens. Yeah, maybe they’d help. But help doesn’t come without a price.”

Clarissa looked at the empty plate, at the shelter he was offering her. “You’re helping me. What price will I have to pay?”

“Shit.” Trent shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

I’ll believe it when I see it.

Clarissa stood and stretched. “Thank you for dinner. Where should I sleep?”

Trent stood too. God, every time he stood near her, her body reacted. Her pulse quickened, her whole body rushing with adrenaline. It wasn’t a particularly bad feeling, just . . . a little scary. He was so much bigger than her.

She’d sleep with her gun by her side as usual tonight. Couldn’t hurt.

“You’ll sleep in my room,” Trent said, “and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I’ll take the couch, it’s fine,” she said.

“A girl like you, you deserve a bed,” he said simply.

“A girl like me,” she repeated.

“I’m being nice, okay? Just . . . please, just agree for once. Take what I’m offering.”

“Okay. Thank you, I mean.” Clarissa swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

Trent nodded. “You don’t have to be sorry. I get it. I’m a threat until proven otherwise.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. He looked . . . hurt. Like he was taking it personally. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Trent put his hands in the air, holding them up as if to show her he meant no harm. “You’re safe here. And the bedroom door . . . it locks from the inside, okay? So you can sleep tonight. And not worry.”

The living room suddenly felt too small for the two of them. He was close, not touching her, no—but the testosterone poured off of him in waves. She could feel it in the air.

Clarissa went into the bedroom and locked the door.

Trent cleared the
dishes and sat back on the couch. It made sense that she’d be wary of him. The fact that he was undeniably attracted to her probably didn’t help.

As much as he tried not to look at Clarissa, whenever she was near him . . . he couldn’t help it. She was so beautiful, with that long red hair, and a fragile appearance that covered the strong woman he knew she was underneath it all.

She couldn’t have survived this long without being strong.

But what about Annie? Even though she was a grown woman now, in his mind his sister was still about, oh, twelve years old, maybe. And annoying the hell out of him by trying to tag along with him and his friends. Trent shook his head.

What was happening to Annie now? Without Clarissa around to protect her, would she be safe?

Tomorrow, they’d start getting their battle plan together. Because the sooner they could move in on Grand Central, the better.

Clarissa woke only
once in the middle of the night—she sat up in the strange bed, her face flushed, her body feeling tingly and . . .

What a dream she’d woken from. God . . . it had seemed so real. Felt real, too. Flashes of the dream caught on the edge of her fuzzy memory. Trent, his shirt off, revealing his broad, muscular chest, lying beside her, stroking her, touching her . . .

Clarissa shook her head, trying to clear her mind. The pillow was cool against her heated flesh. Still, she couldn’t help but think how the man she’d just fantasized about was right outside that bedroom door.

It felt good, in the dream. Really good. Unlike anything she’d experienced on the Tracks or even after, with Roy. It didn’t make sense for her to fantasize about Trent like that, though. Yes, he was handsome. Gorgeous. But she’d been through too much to let herself get attached to a man.

So why am I here, sleeping in his house?

Well.

Clarissa shut her eyes, determined to fall back asleep. She was only staying with Trent because she loved Annie like family, so it made sense for her to want to stay with Annie’s brother.

Yeah, that was true. But it didn’t change the fact that Clarissa had just fantasized about Trent’s hands caressing her naked skin.

She couldn’t fall back asleep without some relief. Her clit felt swollen and needy. The house was silent, the door was locked. Her hand found its way and she shut her eyes, gliding her fingers fast over her bud.

Trent, Trent . . .

She came hard, but didn’t make a sound.

Grand Central Terminal

COLONEL LANCHE

Colonel Lanche zipped
his pants and let the whore from the Tracks leave his office. She scurried out without looking back.

Guess it wasn’t as good for her as it was for him.

“Sir,” Dobson, one of his men, called from the doorway. “Permission to enter, sir?”

“Come in,” Lanche said, waving his hand. “Any news on the boy?”

Evan, the eighteen-year-old runt they’d taken from the domestic terrorist group led by Private Barker and Barker’s whores, hadn’t proven to be cooperative. The kid was tougher than he looked. That wasn’t saying much, since the boy looked like a girl.

“No, sir—but there’s a . . . there’s an ambassador from the United Nations here to see you.”

Lanche’s stomach dropped inside him, and he gripped his desk. “What the fuck? Where?”

“They’ve got a truck, sir. A working truck, and this guy in a blue hat said he needed to speak to the man in charge.”

Holy fucking hell. So it was true. They were taking over.

“A blue hat,” Lanche repeated in disbelief. “Like a pale blue beret? With the UN emblem on it?”

The soldier nodded uncomfortably, shifting his weight.

“Not on my watch,” Lanche growled.

“He won’t go away, sir.”

“I can’t have him coming into the camp, it’s too dangerous. I’ll go out and meet them.”

“Sir.” Dobson took a deep breath, as if he were afraid to argue with him. “We can’t protect you if you’re out there with all their men.”

“How many men?”

“Four I could count, unless they’ve got some hidden in the truck. They say they’ve brought supplies.”

“All right. Bring him and all of his people to me. Search that truck, make sure no one’s hiding.”

Dobson nodded and left.

Lanche smoothed his hair and looked around his office—a room that had once been a storefront on a hallway off the main terminal. The broken glass where his first escapee, Emily Rosen, had thrown herself through, was covered over with plywood.

The blood spot on his carpet where she’d murdered the soldier guarding her had not been so easy to cover up.

Dobson came back with the four UN men, backed up by his soldier Scar. Scar was a good right-hand man in a crisis. Roughed that Evan kid up without thinking twice about it, just because Lanche told him to. He needed more men like Scar.

The men from the United Nations were in military uniforms, with baby blue scarves tucked neatly into the collars. A matching blue patch with that obnoxious world-with-olive-branches logo marked their right shoulders. And they each wore a jauntily placed pale blue beret. At least the berets looked less aggressive than those blue helmets they’d been known to wear. The one in front offered his hand when they walked in.

Lanche stood, not offering a hand in return. Not to these invading motherfuckers.

“How can I help you?” Lanche asked. Might as well get off on the right foot. See what they wanted.

“Very gracious of you, Colonel,” the ambassador said, with a slight foreign accent Lanche couldn’t quite place. “But we are here to help you, to offer our assistance in your time of national crisis.”

Yeah, right. Where were they a year ago, when the power first went out, before everyone started dying?