Nine
Jackson applied the brakes, keeping the engine of the big truck idling as he contemplated the gates leading into Harlington.
The closed gates.
The convoy had lost time tending to the wounded. But that had at least given Jackson and those who had remained behind in Brimfield time to catch up after they’d led the security forces on a chase through town. The fighting had been fierce, dirty, as they’d looped back to the gate and stolen one of the guard’s vehicles to get away.
It had been cramped, sweaty, with eighteen of them piled into a vehicle meant for half that number, but he had ignored the discomfort, his heart in his mouth as he raced to catch up with the convoy.
That heart had stuttered when he’d found them parked a short way off the main road, clustered around the ruins of
