two under control. Gray nodded once, and Knox followed Nina back through the maze of tables to where the pool table stood with its chipped balls and scratched felt.
“So.” She lifted the cue ball and tossed it in the air a few times. “We checked out your story.”
A tiny chill crawled up his spine. If they’d poked around in the wrong places and tipped someone off … “Which part of it?”
“The part where you told the Protectorate to fuck off and die.”
“Subtly, I hope.” He found the battered rack and dropped it on the felt. “No one’s going to have a good night if the Protectorate busts up in here to execute us for desertion.”
“Relax, no one’s getting shot tonight.” She tossed the ball on the table and peeled off her jacket. Instead of the T-shirt he’d expected, she was wearing a tank top with tiny straps that bared smooth shoulders, well-muscled arms, the upper curves of her breasts—and way too much sun-kissed skin.
Lock it down.
He’d watched Rafe play this game enough times to recognize when someone was trying to steer him around by the dick. The mischief in her eyes as she bent over to retrieve the rest of the balls—and gave him an excellent view of her pants hugging her perfect ass—drove the message home.
Nina was a dangerous woman.
That made him feel a little better about playing her.
“So what’s the plan, Captain?”
Ah, yes. The plan. “We have two retrofitted military trucks stashed just outside the city. The old interstates are mostly shit, but there are some navigable stretches left. Can any of you drive?”
She arranged the pool balls in the rack with quick, efficient movements. “Mm-hmm.”
“Then we go north. Conall has GPS coordinates. When we get there, we dig. Then you crack the vault.”
Nina made a soft noise and leaned her hip against the table. “Won’t it be kind of hard to use satellite navigation without satellites?”
So she didn’t know everything. Knox swept up the cue ball and rounded the table. “Most government satellites were destroyed by the Flares,” he agreed, setting the ball carefully in place. “The feds always were shit at keeping up with technical innovations like enhanced solar shielding. You know who wasn’t?”
“The Russians?”
He doubted anyone else in this bar under the age of sixty even knew what Russia was. Another piece to add to the mental puzzle of Nina. When the networks had gone down and the lights went out, most people’s worlds had shrunk to a few miles in any given direction. Unless you were rich, lack of access placed education firmly out of reach. Your only chance was to ace a TechCorps aptitude screening and get funneled into one of their specialized study tracks. Even Knox’s knowledge of pre-Flare countries was mostly limited to a brutally intense crash course on military history.
Nina had clearly received a more comprehensive education.
He lined up a shot and snapped his arm forward, sending the cue ball zipping across the felt. It clacked loudly against the balls, scattering them and sinking two. “Thirty-seven,” he told her, moving around the table to line up his next shot. “That’s how many private-sector TechCorps satellites survived the solar storms. Thanks to Conall, we still have access to them.”
“Sneaky,” she said approvingly.
“GPS is easy. We can even use them for some limited communication.” He tilted his head back toward the booth, where Conall was gesturing to Maya’s wrist. After a wary moment, she unbuckled her watch and held it out. “Conall’s the best,” he said, not bothering to keep the pride from his voice.
“I’m sure he is.” Nina squinted at him, curiosity radiating off her. “What about you? What’s your story?”
Lie with the truth. He bent over the table again, but she was so close he could feel her along his skin. He hit the cue ball a little off-center and sent it careening straight into the back corner pocket. “Not much to it. I joined the Protectorate to help people. Ended up hurting them. Got out.”
She retrieved the cue ball and placed it on the felt once again. “How long were you in?”
Forever.
Knox didn’t want to do the math, even in the safety and solitude of his own mind, but he couldn’t help it. The number came to him immediately, and with damning clarity.
Nine thousand, five hundred, and fifty-one days. It had been more than twenty years since he’d marched up to a Protectorate recruiting station, still burning with the kind of anger only grief could sustain, and he’d spent