Freedom Star

Chapter 8

For about five minutes, Jon dithered. He put on his boots; sat and stared at the screen, hoping Hal would turn up again; started for the door, then changed his mind; sat a while longer; and finally leaped to his feet and went back to the door, up the stairs, and out.

He stood in the dark alley and looked both ways. Recent rain had turned the black pavement into a mirror that reflected the infrequent yellow lights attached to the buildings on either side. Nothing moved.

But only for a moment. A vehicle crept past the mouth of the alley to the left. Jon flattened himself against the door, then hurried across the street to the other, darker, side. He'd barely reached the safety of the shadows when the same vehicle, or another like it, crept by again. A second vehicle crawled past the other end of the alley.

Trapped! Jon thought. Unless—he looked along the wall he was pressed against. It looked like the back of warehouse: no doors, but there were windows low to the ground, presumably opening into basements. Jon knelt and pushed at the nearest. It wouldn't budge. He hesitated for only a second before leaning back on his hands and kicking at the glass with his boot.

The window shattered with an incredibly loud noise. Jon scrambled up, certain the noise would bring whomever was closing in on the apartment running, but nothing happened, so he knelt again and felt around the frame of the broken window, careful not to cut himself. There had to be a latch—

There! He gave it a sharp tug and pushed at the window frame, which swung easily inward. Quickly he lowered his feet into the darkness beyond, hesitated—there was no way to tell what he was about to jump into or onto—and leaped.

Almost instantly his feet slammed against concrete and he fell forward, sprawling, glass from the kicked-in window grinding into his palms. He gritted his teeth, picked himself up carefully, and then picked shards from his bleeding hands with his teeth. The shock of the landing had set his wounded leg to throbbing again. He flexed it, wincing. All it needed was rest, Ellia had said—but it looked like it wasn't going to get it.

Especially not now that footsteps were pounding down the alley.

Cautiously Jon poked his head over the windowsill. The steps approached from his left, but he couldn't see far enough around the corner to identify the source.

The steps halted abruptly as tires squealed off to the right. "Over there!" someone shouted. "Is that her?"

Her? Jon jerked open the window. "Ellia?" he called softly; then, when he got no reply, much more loudly, "Ellia!"

"Jon?" The footsteps came toward him uncertainly; a moment later booted feet hesitated on the pavement outside the window. "Jon, where are you?"

"Down here!" Jon reached out and tugged at Ellia's ankle. She jerked it free, then dropped to her hands and knees. He gasped at the sight of her face; her right eye was swollen almost shut and blood still oozed from a gash on her cheek. "What happened?"

"I had to be sure the Revolution was a fake," she said bitterly. "I went to visit an old 'friend.' Now I'm sure."

"There's something else you should know," Jon said. "Your father—"

"Has been appointed Governor. I know. It's probably why my 'friend' dropped his pretense: my father will close down the Loyal Revolution. His approach to snuffing out possible rebellion will be...more direct."

"Get some lights shining down there!" the voice from the street shouted again. "Where are those idiots at the other end of the alley?"

"They had a little accident," Ellia growled.