know?”
“ Time magazine,” Tabitha lied. “They had a whole article about it. It was all anonymous, of course.” The truth was that the rebels had tried to recruit Tabitha and she’d turned them down. They told her to contact them if she’d had a change of heart. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might be having one. Maybe it was because she was afraid of the Russians. But she told herself she was afraid of the Americans. She’d seen Americans get killed by Americans.
The helipad came into view. Tabitha touched Krezi’s arm, and when the girl met her gaze, she mouthed the word Jack .
They were silent the rest of the way to the helicopter.
TEN
ZASHA STOOD ON THE ROOFTOP of a Seattle skyscraper. Fyodor lay sleeping on the hard surface of a helicopter platform beside her, exhausted from the drugs.
It had been a long day—a constant fight against the American air force in the skies, coming at them from every direction in an attempt to pierce Fyodor’s bubble, and the army units positioned on the ground to defend the harbor.
But now the Russian fleet had landed and was offloading its cargo, creating a foothold in the city. Russian fighters were patrolling the skies. And Zasha and Fyodor were finally able to rest.
The others like Zasha—enhanced soldiers who had been raised and trained to participate in the maskirovka —would be taking over much of the work now. There was Otto, a boy with power over the weather, who would be heading south for the attack into Portland. Ekaterina, a girl who couldn’t exactly fly but was intensely strong and tough and could leap long distances, would be going north into Canada along with Natalya and Lyubov and a handful of others.
Zasha was heading east with the main force, through a narrow pass in the Cascade mountains. She could see the peaks in the distance.
Fyodor stirred. Zasha sat down on the helipad next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Zasha Litvyak,” he murmured, his words slurred. “Flying ace. How many Americans have you killed?”
“You have killed them,” she said, the breeze whipping at her hair. “You’re the hero.”
ELEVEN
TWO MEN STOOD IN THE apartment building’s lobby, holding Alec’s ID between them and scowling. They’d done all they could to verify his identity; Alec didn’t speak a word of Russian. Back in Denver it was his job to blend in—to look like the all-American boy he was supposed to be. His “parents”—his handlers—had smuggled him across the border and now were living a perfectly average life: he was a dentist and she was a midlevel manager at a railroad. No one had ever slipped up and spoken Russian in the home, or eaten any food that could have been thought of as Russian.
That was not to say they hadn’t trained him. Some of the training was simple: how to build a house, so that Alec would be able to understand how to knock one down. Or the lunch when he and his mom had eaten in the grassy area by the power substation, while she described how each part of it worked. The harder thing was convincing Alec that America was a bad place. He’d only known the training school back home, and America seemed like a land of plenty. So they worked on that most of all. His dad came into his bedroom every night with newspaper clippings—stories about murders where the police used excessive force, about poverty, even a combination of the two: police violence against the homeless. Then his dad would speak wistfully about Russia, and the control their homeland had against crime.
“You,” one of the men down the hall called. “Alec Moore.”
Alec stood up.
“Vy govorite na russkom yazyke?”
Alec stood there and shook his head slightly.
“Then we’ll have to do this in English,” the man said in a heavily accented voice. “Come with me.”
He led Alec around a corner, another man falling into step behind them. Alec realized they were afraid of him. He could tell them they didn’t need to be, but that
“ Time magazine,” Tabitha lied. “They had a whole article about it. It was all anonymous, of course.” The truth was that the rebels had tried to recruit Tabitha and she’d turned them down. They told her to contact them if she’d had a change of heart. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might be having one. Maybe it was because she was afraid of the Russians. But she told herself she was afraid of the Americans. She’d seen Americans get killed by Americans.
The helipad came into view. Tabitha touched Krezi’s arm, and when the girl met her gaze, she mouthed the word Jack .
They were silent the rest of the way to the helicopter.
TEN
ZASHA STOOD ON THE ROOFTOP of a Seattle skyscraper. Fyodor lay sleeping on the hard surface of a helicopter platform beside her, exhausted from the drugs.
It had been a long day—a constant fight against the American air force in the skies, coming at them from every direction in an attempt to pierce Fyodor’s bubble, and the army units positioned on the ground to defend the harbor.
But now the Russian fleet had landed and was offloading its cargo, creating a foothold in the city. Russian fighters were patrolling the skies. And Zasha and Fyodor were finally able to rest.
The others like Zasha—enhanced soldiers who had been raised and trained to participate in the maskirovka —would be taking over much of the work now. There was Otto, a boy with power over the weather, who would be heading south for the attack into Portland. Ekaterina, a girl who couldn’t exactly fly but was intensely strong and tough and could leap long distances, would be going north into Canada along with Natalya and Lyubov and a handful of others.
Zasha was heading east with the main force, through a narrow pass in the Cascade mountains. She could see the peaks in the distance.
Fyodor stirred. Zasha sat down on the helipad next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Zasha Litvyak,” he murmured, his words slurred. “Flying ace. How many Americans have you killed?”
“You have killed them,” she said, the breeze whipping at her hair. “You’re the hero.”
ELEVEN
TWO MEN STOOD IN THE apartment building’s lobby, holding Alec’s ID between them and scowling. They’d done all they could to verify his identity; Alec didn’t speak a word of Russian. Back in Denver it was his job to blend in—to look like the all-American boy he was supposed to be. His “parents”—his handlers—had smuggled him across the border and now were living a perfectly average life: he was a dentist and she was a midlevel manager at a railroad. No one had ever slipped up and spoken Russian in the home, or eaten any food that could have been thought of as Russian.
That was not to say they hadn’t trained him. Some of the training was simple: how to build a house, so that Alec would be able to understand how to knock one down. Or the lunch when he and his mom had eaten in the grassy area by the power substation, while she described how each part of it worked. The harder thing was convincing Alec that America was a bad place. He’d only known the training school back home, and America seemed like a land of plenty. So they worked on that most of all. His dad came into his bedroom every night with newspaper clippings—stories about murders where the police used excessive force, about poverty, even a combination of the two: police violence against the homeless. Then his dad would speak wistfully about Russia, and the control their homeland had against crime.
“You,” one of the men down the hall called. “Alec Moore.”
Alec stood up.
“Vy govorite na russkom yazyke?”
Alec stood there and shook his head slightly.
“Then we’ll have to do this in English,” the man said in a heavily accented voice. “Come with me.”
He led Alec around a corner, another man falling into step behind them. Alec realized they were afraid of him. He could tell them they didn’t need to be, but that
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