Zhukov's Dogs (45 page)

Val didn’t reply. I was too busy watching the road to explain all the ways the S.O.R. would scour the nation for us. He shifted closer as the White House lawn came into view beyond my window. I glanced over, wondering if the rest of The Council members had seen Dr. Halliburton’s face, yet. She would certainly be reminded of me every time she looked in the mirror for the rest of her life, something that made our departure from the States all the more pertinent.

“That’s where they live, right?” Val asked, not needing to clarify the “they.”

I nodded.

“And they’re going to get away with everything?”

I nodded again.

Val silenced, his fingers drumming against his collarbone. I didn’t know what to tell him. The Council was bigger than us, so much bigger, and we were lucky to have escaped them in one piece.

“You’re scheming,” I noted as we turned off on Route 1, heading south for the Potomac and leaving the White House in the rearview where it belonged. A red light stopped us short at a wide, barren intersection.

Val’s fingers stilled. “Planning… Let’s go blow up the White House.”

“I can’t make a U-turn here.” I chuckled, hitting the turn signal to go right. “I’ll have to go around the block.”

Val laughed and sat back so he could mock me. The red light hid the bruising along the side of his face, but not the dark circles under his eyes. “Mr. Fugitive is afraid of making a traffic violation?”

I turned off my signal and checked the rearview for headlights. Light still red, I eased off the brake, cutting the wheel.

“Don’t you dare,” Val laughed, reaching over my arms to grab the wheel. “I am
not
going back to lockup over a traffic violation.”

I pressed the brake down again, and we stopped halfway into the crosswalk. “You wanted to blow up the White House,” I reminded him, my hands closing over his and holding them tight to the wheel. It was a calculated move that kept him close. “A U-turn gets us there the quickest. If that means a ticket, so be it.”

“Aw, you’d go to traffic school on weekends for me?”

“Val, by now you should realize there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“And why is that?” he asked, the devious nature I’d missed so much resurfacing with a vengeance and a smirk.

“Really?” I scoffed. “I just rescued us from one of the military’s most secure facilities and you’re going to make me say it first?”

Val leaned forward, closing the handful of inches between us and pressing cold lips against my own. I released one of his hands so I could grip the side of his face, savoring a kiss I thought I’d never get to enjoy again. His free hand rested on my chest, and chilly fingers slipped under my collar. Green light seeped past my eyelids. Val drew back, and I opened my eyes to see he was smiling, painted in green, dark bruises visible again.

“Don’t worry, Nik,” he said, releasing my collar and pulling his hand out from under mine on the steering wheel. He settled against my side with a content sigh, guiding the hand I’d held on his face over his shoulders, instead. “I love you too… but you’re going to miss the light if you don’t start driving, and, in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got to get to Mexico.”

I eased off the brake and smiled. This is what I’d given it all up for. A life of exile and the title of traitor. Sarcasm, wry wit, pale skin, blond hair, dark gray eyes, and love. It was far from the future I’d imagined, but it was all mine, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Massive thanks to:

My fearless agent, Kimberley Cameron, for never giving up. She also was kind enough to overlook my ridiculous voicemail greeting at the time. One down!!!!!! (too many exclamation points, I know)

Elizabeth Kracht, for bringing Kimberley and I together.

Everyone at Curiosity Quills, including the goats.

All those who helped overhaul my manuscript, especially Sangeeta Mehta, Alison Heller, Erika Galpin, and Vicki Merkiel.

Alexandria Thompson, for her epically-amazing cover art.

My fiancé, Ian, for supporting me and putting up with my complaining, nocturnal editing habits, and general indecision on everything not related to Zhukov’s Dogs while it was being written.

My family, for providing a nomadic upbringing. Without it, I would have never gone through a socially-inept phase that spawned a passion for writing. Props to Mom, who pretended she didn’t know I was up until 3 a.m. on a school night.

Ms. S and Mr. S. You both helped me through one of the roughest years of my life, and I am eternally grateful for your support.

Seattle.

Amanda Cyr
was born in Maryland and spent the first 18 years of life hopping around the world. She is now a proud, pale Seattleite.

Along the way she studied at Seattle University, found a man, took in a pair of polar bears, and made some friends.

She spends her days writing for and editing various websites, practicing her sarcasm, and trying to explain fandoms to non-believers.

This is her first novel.

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