Page 11 of Seasons of War
“Yes, sir.” It didn't matter that the deadly ambush fooled his entire division. His father was right. He'd failed his squad, and now most of them were dead.
A heavy sigh loosened his father's tensed shoulders. He curled his fingers around a frosted glass of whiskey, pointing at a chair. “Sit. You're sweating.”
“My division is still on the field.” Zayne squared his jaw, almost too exhausted for even that. His squad may not have slept yet, and they'd spend a few more days traveling back, carrying the weight of their lost soldiers.
His father's hesitation said enough. Whether Zayne sat or stood made no difference to the survivors. But understanding, even agreement, passed over his face. “Don't worry, son. There's plenty of work to do while your division travels.”
“Is this about the letter?”
“Not entirely. It's the Followers.”
This was why he wished Mom would stay far away from those people. How close did this get to her? He helped the Followers several times over the years to protect Mom, but he doubted he'd get them out of this mess. The Phaedra hated them and loved any excuse to spend more money on hunting them down.
He justified his obsession with the complaint that they didn't register with the state, as all churches and organizations needed to do. But it defied what the Followers stood for to register with a ruthless empire, especially when that ensured government surveillance. They believed that just as the current of war ran from the beginning of humanity to now, so did justice, and they devoted themselves to that powerful energy.
Ciondo mastered surveillance. Every baby received a chip in their hand upon birth to identify them and track their location. The government used these chips, as well as facial recognition and sensors, to monitor every person who entered or left a city anywhere in the country. That did not touch their advanced system of drones.
The Followers fought to avoid detection at all costs. They'd never register.
What did the church do to earn this level of attention? They'd always been a non-violent force, more of a personal obsession of the Phaedra's than a military priority.
The High General sipped his whiskey. “Have you heard of Becka Rogers?”
Zayne intentionally loosened his muscles to keep from reacting to the name, remembering to relax his forehead and jaw. This wasn't the first stir the refugee caused. Her name came up multiple times over the years when Zayne helped the Followers.
“Sounds familiar,” Zayne said, satisfied at how convincing he appeared.
“She led Followers out in the territories to strike an official agreement with the United. Now they're working with underground churches here in Ciondo.”
Disastrous. The Phaedra often labeled the Followers as terrorists, but the public never fully bought in. If they became an insurgent force, the Phaedra then had all the demand he needed to focus on them.
“She's a known fugitive who fled to the territories over a decade ago and has been living there ever since.”
Zayne nodded, struggling not to tense. “The United wants to use the underground churches to tear us apart from the inside out.” Mom needed to stop attending their services. “The Phaedra saw this coming.”
If the Phaedra hadn't driven the Followers to desperation, they'd never have gotten involved with the military. His obsession with destroying the Followers only bolstered their influence and reach.
“Yes. Recently we discovered the real reason Becka Rogers wanted to gain influence here in Ciondo.” His father met his eyes. “She's looking for her daughter.”
Dread churned in Zayne's gut, and his eyes stole to the observatory window, though from here he saw nothing but tall white walls. It was too late, wasn't it?
“It wasn't difficult to locate the girl once we investigated Becka Rogers and uncovered her real name.” His father set his whiskey glass down. The thud sounded loud in the quiet room. “Take a look.” He nodded toward the window.
They'd already taken the daughter, and Zayne couldn't help her now. He limped toward the window with the full knowledge that an innocent woman waited below. Still, he hoped he wouldn't see anyone, as if he watched a movie he knew the ending to and hoped for something different.
Dread conjured a feeling out of the numbness of Zayne's chest as he stepped closer. A woman paced the room, young and drowning in the oversized prison uniform. Shaky hands pushed red hair back from her face, her natural dusky highlights catching the overhead lights. Green eyes he'd never forgotten searched the one-way mirror she couldn't see behind. Green eyes brimming with terror. Eyes he knew.
The throb in his leg shot straight to his heart.
No. No, no. This made no sense.
It was her.
The woman who single-handedly threw the Phaedra into a week-long rage for co-opting his tale of magic and divinity. Her, pacing down below, swimming in an oversized prison uniform, captured and at the center of the most terrible plot the Phaedra had ever dreamed up.
Kira. Fucking Kira, of all people.
The air leaked out from his lungs, and when it was depleted, shock siphoned the oxygen from every cell in his body. Why? First Edwards and now Kira. Why now? Why now when he wanted to lie in the mud with his squad and die alongside them? When it was all already too much? Why here in the Phaedra's clutches? In the one place he couldn't save her from?
