She won’t even stop making out with him long enough to look at me.
“Come on, G.” Indiana takes my hand and we stand. “Those two don’t have a handful of guts between them.”
Holden finally pulls away from Penelope, looking disgustingly smug. “Sometimes being stupidlookslike being brave.”
“Maybe,” Indiana concedes. “But cowardice always looks like what it is.”
5 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
“If they’re getting supply shipments from a boat therehasto be a path leading to their base camp around here somewhere,” Luke whispers as we fight our way along the edge of the jungle as quietly as we can in the dark.
“There it is!”
“The path?”
“No, the boat!” I grab Luke’s arm and point north toward the beach. “We were right! It’s small, though. Itmayhold six,” I murmur, squinting at the small speedboat through the foliage. “But there are eight of us.”
I hope.
Luke follows my line of sight to a dinged-up speedboat perched in the sand to the west of the homemade submarine, where a series of torches casts overlapping pools of light. Beyond the boat is a muddy, square blue tent, big enough to host a prom after-party. “There could be another one in there.”
We pick our way toward the deserted beach carefully,listening for voices and footsteps, then approach the tent from the far side, to reduce the chances of our footprints being seen. The front flaps are tied closed, but the rope is loose, and we’re both small enough to duck under.
Inside, my flashlight beam highlights several long shapes draped by tarps, then settles on what we’re looking for at the far end of the tent: another boat identical to the one on the beach.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Luke squats to examine the hull. “I mean, why else would you keep a boat in a tent?”
“Because it’s a spare? Half my neighbors have beat-up cars they never drive.” I smooth loose strands of damp, frizzy hair back toward my ponytail, then stretch to relieve the strain from carrying a backpack for two days straight. “Maybe we should look for extra gas. Just in case.” I swing the flashlight toward the closest unidentifiable shape and toss back one corner of the tarp.
My heart leaps into my throat. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Oh,shit.” Luke pulls me back from a two-and-a half-foot-long metal cone lying on its side in a special wooden cradle. Next to it, still mostly covered by the tarp, is an identical cone. “Those look like warheads.”
I take a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. Trying to think. The small bombs being loaded onto Moreno’s submarines were bad enough, but this ...
This is ...
Bad.
“It’s conventional.” Luke leans closer to look at what’s printed on the nearest warhead. “And I think this is Russian writing.”
“Conventional? As opposed to the other, zanier kind of warhead?”
“As opposed to a nuke. Or a chemical warhead. Or a biological one.”
“Why would they need to ship warheads? Can’t they just ... shoot them?”
“Because the warhead is just the tip. Without the missile, it’s a bomb, but not a projectile.”
“Did you learn that from the Boy Scouts?”
“Nope. Call of Duty.” He circles the tent to the two other tarp-draped lumps and pulls back the material to expose two more warheads in each bundle. “Shit. These lookold. Maybe ... Cold War era? I wonder how they’re planning to detonate them.” Luke sounds almost as interested as he sounds scared. “Without the missiles, they’ll have to have something to provide the initial blast needed to trigger the real explosion.”
Terror burns up from my stomach. “Simple English, Luke. What does that mean?”
“They need a small bomb to set off each of the big bombs.”
