Forged(8)

Another lie. Another brilliantly altered tale Frank passed off as fact. And now . . . with the water . . .

He’s always had enough. Years of water rationing just helped him create a constant state of uncertainty. It gave civilians another reason to rely on the Order and never leave the safety of a dome. The world outside might have been deadly once—during the War, when the West’s virus spread rampant—and Frank’s made sure that fear never died.

“So if the Compound isn’t a water treatment facility, what is it?” I ask.

“That’s exactly what we want you to find out. If you’re willing to take the job.”

A handful of problematic details surface: how far we are from the place, the way it’s surrounded by water and heavily fortified, Isaac’s comment about the number of guards patrolling it night and day.

Vik senses my hesitation and goes into compassion mode. “I understand your concern. Truly, I do. It’s a lot for us to ask, but we wouldn’t ask at all if we didn’t think it could mean something huge for our side.

“We’ll arrange transportation for you and assign a specialist to guide the team. But Frank—the Order—is up to something there. We need to learn what, and plan our defenses accordingly. Maybe we can even use whatever he’s hiding to our advantage.”

Blaine and Sammy glance sideways at each other, looking skeptical.

“This idea that the Compound is more than the Order lets on . . . ,” Bree says. “Where did it come from?”

“What do you mean?” Adam looks insulted, like Bree’s questions are a personal attack on his character.

“I mean,” she drawls, “if we’re heading to a seemingly unbreachable location and being asked to breach it, you had better tell us what led you to believe it’s worth checking out.”

“Some of our spies on the Gulf have been suspicious of the place for a while,” Vik says. “They claim boats come in and out, but not frequently enough to be handling mass provision shipments of drinking water.” Vik pushes another photo across the table, this time of a man I’ve never seen. “That’s one of our best spies, Nicholas Bageretti. Sells water to AmEast under the alias Badger. He says he’s found a way in.”

For me, it’s enough. More than enough.

Clipper and Sammy don’t hesitate when I tell them to get ready. Even Bree refrains from being difficult. But Blaine has yet to pack a single possession.

“I think it’s a death wish,” he says as I toss clothes into a bag.

“I think it’s a great lead.”

He stops pacing between the bunks. “A lead? How? Vik’s asking us to approach a heavily patrolled area and stick our noses inside. I bet all we find is a bunch of weapons and war provisions. I don’t see how that can help us.”

I take a deep breath and squeeze the handle of Pa’s carving knife, pressing the etched shape of our last name—Weathersby—into my palm.

“We blow the place up. Or steal the supplies. Sabotage it. It doesn’t matter what we do so long as it’s some sort of setback for the Order.”

“We’re not prepared. The whole thing is—”

“Blaine!” I turn on him, let his name come out of me like a whip. “Look,” I say as evenly as possible. “Badger claims he knows a way in, and Vik is going to exploit that with or without us. If we don’t take the job, he’ll just send someone else. This is our chance to do something. Be a part of the big strike he’s planning.”

“The strike he’s planning but hasn’t shared any details about,” Blaine mumbles. “What do we really know about this Badger guy? He could get us all killed.”

“I read about him in some underground papers in Bone Harbor. He’s been selling water to AmEast citizens right under the Order’s nose. Badger’s good and he knows what he’s doing. He’ll get us in. And anything we need to plan further, we’ll figure out before we get to the Compound.”

Vik has a chopper set to bring us to the small Expat settlement of Pine Ridge west of the Gulf. From there, we’ll get in touch with Badger. We need to be ready within the next hour, which means packing fast, and asking questions—the detailed questions—later.

“I still don’t like it,” Blaine says. “We shouldn’t go. We—”

“Do you even care that Pa is dead?” I erupt. “I’m trying to make his sacrifice worth something. Trying to get us back to Emma, Claysoot, Kale. Remember your daughter, Blaine? Or are you fine pretending she doesn’t exist either?”

His fists grab the front of my shirt, his momentum sending me backward. My shoulders hit the wall, followed by my head.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “I think about her every damn second.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“Just because I don’t say something aloud doesn’t mean I’m not feeling it. But this is so like you—jumping to conclusions, saying whatever comes barreling into your head.”

This is the closest we’ve come to a fistfight in years. I half want him to throw a punch, but he won’t. I know he won’t.

“I used to think you were so much better than me,” I say, staring him down. “I’d always beat myself up over how selfless you are, putting everyone else first, being so sickeningly decent, and it’s like I don’t even know you anymore. Because this isn’t decent: wanting to sit around and do nothing but work soil and fool around with Jules. It’s cowardly.”