Page 153 of Victorious

Ten since he’d gone dark.

For all of Cardale’s posturing, he’d obviously failed.

“Permission to engage?” asked Noah.

The answer came a moment later. “Stand by.”

Noah cracked his knuckles as dawn seeped across the park, illuminating the rides and stalls and paths between.

“I know Serena,” he muttered to himself. “We were on the same side once. She trusts me.” Obviously not. Arrogant prick.

According to the position markers on the comm, Eli had made it to Madman’s Mansion. But there the trail went dead. All attempts to reach him since had failed.

Based on Eli’s description back at the motel, and Dr. Gray’s hypothesis, Serena Clarke was creating some kind of force field. A distortion of reality that radiated outward.

The EO back in the control room, Malcolm, had marked the place between the entrance and the ride, where Eli stopped responding. A radius of fifty meters, which didn’t sound like much until you were inside it.

A radius of fifty meters, which didn’t sound like much until you were inside it.

“Permission to engage?” he asked again, and this time, Gabriel agreed.

“Permission granted.”

Noah felt his body loosen at the words, legs melting into movement. “Copy that,” he said. “Agent Harris in pursuit.”

“Noah,” added Gabriel as he approached the gate. “No matter what you see, or feel, or hear, don’t stop until you reach the target.”

Noah understood the purpose of the order. A test. Dr. Gray’s instruction versus Serena’s influence.

“Understood,” he said, consulting the compass on his watch.

According to the map, Madman’s Mansion was due west of his position. The park was a jumble of crossing paths, obstructed sight lines and frequent obstacles, but he was used to navigating difficult terrain. So long as he—

Noah’s boot struck something, and he stumbled forward, catching himself against the truck.

Tan, the same color as the dust that coated everything out here. It clung to his hair, and his clothes. His cot and skin. He scrubbed it from his gun each night and woke with the taste of it in his mouth each morning.

This place was hell on earth.

But it was also home.

The closest thing he’d ever found since he’d been fished out of delinquency, given purpose. Place.

It wasn’t the fighting or the killing he enjoyed, though he was good at both.

It was the squad. His family.

“Harris, catch!” called Toledo, lobbing a can at his head.

Noah plucked the beer out of the air and cracked it open as laughter spilled out of the nearby tent. Tinny music was leaking from a radio.

They were celebrating—he couldn’t remember what, but it didn’t really matter. Another day. Another mission. Photos rippled in the breeze, X’s through each face.

These were his favorite moments. Back at base. The tension of the day breaking with the heat. The sun was finally going down, offering a single decent hour before the desert weather turned from scorching day to freezing night.

Noah saw them lounging in the tent. His brothers. His friends. A strange feeling washed over him, a nameless thing he didn’t want to probe, or place.

“There he is,” called Matthews.