Why is nothing happening?
Where the fuck is Droga?
I pick up my phone and pull up one of the Eastside cameras.
It’s Maddy, I think, who sits at the dining table alone, elbows on the table, her head low between her hands.
I exhale, rubbing my forehead, knowing that what I am about to do will raise eyebrows. I want to think it’s out of pity—something that until recently was an alien concept to me.
I pick up the phone and dial Doc.
“Doc, I need to have a word with you if you got a minute.”
The convenience of the island is that despite the many levels and staircases that can kill anyone with heart problems or bad legs, there are paved paths that go all around and across the central part of Ayana, making it easy to get around by golf carts and scooters. So, five minutes later, there is the familiar beeping of the gate sensor and then a soft knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Doc is in his fifties, expert and professional, with cultivated respect for others. Naturally, one of the very few who knocks.
“Doc.” I nod.
Seeing older people on this island gives me a strange sense of home. As if we are in a normal world. Doc came with his wife almost right after the Change when we—Dad—made a decision to make Zion home to Gen-Alpha while the Western world was going ape-shit. He has four nurses who help him. Surgeons are on call. We bring them from the mainland, though it takes half a day to get here. For emergency procedures—that happens more often than I would like—they arrive by helicopters. There is one practicing surgeon in town, three are retired, including one expat, who, as I hear, are all raging alcoholics. Another thing to add to the list—we need a couple more physicians.
“A drink?” I offer.
“No, thanks,” Doc replies with a soft smile, studying me like he is trying to figure out whether I have liver failure yet.
“Are you busy today?” I ask him.
“The usual, Archer. Nothing major. What’s going on?”
“I need you to take a small crew and take a boat ride to the Eastside. Marlow will give you clearance.”
He doesn’t ask why, just nods. We’ve been here before. Doc’s reaction during emergencies is that of a Medical Corps staff. When we had a breach a month ago and five guards were down, he was on a twenty-four hour shift until shit got sorted.
He is leaving when I stop him. “And, Doc? Not a word to anyone.”
I pick up my phone and dial Marlow. “I’m sending Doc your way. He’ll tell you what to do.”
As soon as I hang up, my radio beeps.
Fucking hell.
“We have guests, boss.” It’s Slate, the head of my personal security. Anything that’s my personal request goes through him. But his voice is a little too excited. “Eastern checkpoint. Shots were fired. The surveillance tower was blown up.”
Instantly, my heart starts pounding, blood simmering in my veins. It’s excitement mixed with anticipation.
Finally, fuckers.
“I said no shooting,” I warn. “No matter what.”
“Our guys weren’t the ones shooting, boss. Two of ours are injured, but nothing major.” Fuck, and I just sent Doc away. “The fire is put out, but the tower is gone. The Eastsiders are apprehended.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Droga with them?”