Free Die Run Hide by P. M. Kavanaugh Page A

handed her the glow stick.
    She swung the knapsack over her shoulder and rode the auto-lift down. On the ground, the only sound was the faint swish from the freeway traffic.
    Once out of Boris’s sight, she dimmed the glow stick and checked again for suspicious sounds or movements. Nothing. Maybe he had just needed a bio-break. It wasn’t a bad idea. The next stop could be hours from now.
    She unfastened her pants, took a wide stance, and relieved herself. Then she started back, brightening the glow stick and waving it so Boris would see her.
    He reached for the ignition. The engine started to engage.
    A giant fist of air struck her, knocking her backwards, over a tangle of bushes. She landed and rolled. Away from the purple-and-black cloud of smoke. Away from the blast that punched through the stillness.
    She came to a stop on her back and lay staring up at the murky sky. The glow stick dug into the back of her shoulder. Her breath shuddered out of her. When she regained control of it, she raised herself up just high enough to see.
    The body of the rig remained intact. But the cab was gone, vanished, as if the driver had simply detached it from the container and abandoned his load. In its place sat a small mound of debris.
    No more cab. No more driver. No birthday present for Katerina. No promise kept.
    Who had planted the bomb? Had Salazar managed to get to the truck before Boris drove off? Had some other operative? Or was a different enemy already on her trail?
    Anika’s stomach dropped away, leaving a gaping hole as black as the night. What had she done, sucking a civilian, an innocent into her dangerous gamble for freedom? When would the nightmare end? If only it were a nightmare, one long bad dream, from the day she had signed on with U.N.I.T. until now. If only she could open her eyes and it would all be over. Like it had never happened.
    Except for Gianni. She reached for the St. Jude medal and held it tight. Even if they weren’t meant for each other, even if their profiles didn’t match, she didn’t want Gianni to be a dream.
    She forced herself to stand, brushed twigs and leaves from her pants and top, picked up the knapsack. She walked forward, stopping just short of the residue from the cab. Up close, the mound of particles, glitter-sized pieces of silver and blue and black, looked like something left over from a party. It was so unnatural that this small pile was all that remained of what moments before had been a giant rig of steel and plastic and glass. No vestiges of heat or smoke marked the destruction.
    She sifted through the pile with the glow stick. On her second pass, she found a three millimeter bright orange strip. It didn’t carry any identifying alpha-numerals or icons. It didn’t have to. She remembered the weapons techs showing it to her, bragging about their new “toy” during her training sessions on the flex-laser.
    “Looks like a tracker, rips like a bomb,” one of them had boasted.
    Her eyes burned with dry tears. Here was her proof that U.N.I.T. knew she had survived the solo, that Salazar had been sent after her.
    Emotions roiled inside her — guilt over Boris, sorrow for his wife and daughter, anger at Command, worry for Gianni. She wanted to cry, to yell, to beat something with her fists. Instead, she grabbed onto her training.
    She gathered her feelings, her thoughts, her nerves, and cinched them tight. She talked herself through the next minute as if she were directing someone else. With the completion of each task, she closed off an emotion.
    Open up the knapsack. Bury the guilt. Remove the Numb-It. Bury the sadness for Katerina. Pull up your pant leg. Bury the anger at Command. Squeeze out the gel. Bury the fear for Gianni. Smooth out the bandage. Bury the fear for yourself. Close the knapsack. Bury the fear deeper.
    At last, empty and quiet inside, she calculated her arrival at the nearest safehouse. Midnight. She had to contact Gianni and warn him about U.N.I.T.’s