With love,
Dr Joseph McCormick.
PS – the pain of missing someone is always worth it for the joy of having known them. Always.
*
And with that, McCormick’s friendship with Ewan was over.
But a part of him lived on in Ewan, clear and inextinguishable. That was something, at least.
Ewan felt a throbbing in the back of his head: his usual doubting reaction when someone told him they trusted him. McCormick’s kind of trust could change anyone’s life, but the inevitable question lingered in Ewan’s mind.
‘Am I worth it?’ he breathed to himself, unaware that he had spoken.
The Memorial Wall did not answer him, and the words on the letter did not change. McCormick had said everything he was ever going to say, and the questions from then on would be Ewan’s to answer.
‘Worth what?’ came a friend’s wounded voice from the stairs. Ewan closed his eyes.
‘Nothing, Shannon.’
She reached the basement, wandered over to the Memorial Wall and sat down on the floor next to him. Ewan was surprised when she leaned against him and rested her head against his chin. But he accepted, and placed an arm around her shoulder.
Ewan lay his letter on the ground, face down.
‘I know you’re not OK,’ said Shannon, ‘so I won’t ask. Just remember that you’re not alone.’
‘What did yours say?’
Shannon seemed surprised at the bluntness of his question. Or maybe the fact he had even asked. The letters had been private, after all.
But Ewan’s prediction was right. Shannon didn’t mind sharing.
‘He told me he was proud of me,’ she said, ‘and how great it was that I chose the good of humanity instead of a life of luxury with my dad. He told me I was just what the team needed – the right balance of fiery determination and lucid self-control, if I got his words right.’
Ewan smiled, fighting back tears. It sounded enough like McCormick.
‘He also said I’ll need to prepare myself for New London,’ Shannon continued. ‘I can’t go on forever just doing missions in the countryside. Before this war ends, I’ll have to go back and face him.’
She lifted her head from Ewan, so she could turn and face him.
‘And he told me to look after you,’ she finished. ‘When times get tough, you’ll need the support of your girlfriend.’
McCormick worked it out? He knew w hat was going on between us?
Hell, he probably worked it out before we did.
‘So what about you?’ she asked. ‘What did he say?’
Ewan looked at the face-down paper, and decided to tell her. She had trusted him, so it was only right to trust her back. She had earned it.
‘He wants me to lead the war against your father.’
Ewan did not know what reaction to expect, but Shannon smiled.
‘He gave me a bunch of leadership advice,’ he continued, ‘then told me not to worry because the others will follow me. I don’t know what to make of that.’
‘I think you are worth it,’ said Shannon. ‘Whether or not you realise it, the others look up to you.’
Ewan looked at her with blatant doubt in his eyes.
‘You’re usually the only one in the battlefield who knows what’s going on,’ she continued. ‘The one who keeps fighting when others lose motivation. Someone with a chaotic background who can think straight anyway. The guy who fights tooth and nail so naturally because he’s been doing it his whole life. It’s enough to inspire anyone.’
Ewan started to laugh.
‘Shut your mouth and listen,’ said Shannon. ‘Since I first met you, you’ve been to the Inner City and got out alive. You’ve gone to Oakenfold and escaped. Last night you got up to Floor C without dying. I know you don’t realise, but the others are amazed by all that. If you talk to them, they’ll listen. If you lead, they’ll follow.’
Ewan decided not to tell Shannon she was wrong. McCormick himself had advised him to listen to his soldiers.
And incredibly, she changed his mind.
‘I guess there’s only one way to find out,’ he said.
Shannon smiled, and rested her head against him once more. They gazed at the Memorial Wall together, their eyes fixed on the lowest name.
McCormick had passed the baton, and Ewan would pick it up and run. And with the Underdogs ripped apart by grief, the sooner he started the better.
The more he thought about it, the more Ewan realised he was up to the challenge. He had spent the first sixteen years of his life around people who had forced an identity on him, who had made him believe he was nothing more than a nasty kid with special needs and a boatload of personal issues. But now, with him at the helm of the Underdogs, it would be his turn to tell the world who he was.
It was time for Ewan West to take centre stage. For him to speak, for the world to listen, and for his friends to win the war.
The
will return.
For the latest updates about further books
in the Underdogs series, visit
the author’s website at chrisbonnello.com
or the series’ Facebook page at
facebook.com/Underdogsnovel.
Read on for an extract of the third book in the series – Underdogs: Acceleration …
Chapter 1
Oliver Roth had felt uneasy when Grant called him to Floor B. It was an unusual feeling. The great Nicholas Grant had never made him uneasy before.
He used his keycard against the door to the stairwell between Floors C and B, and took a deep breath after the door had closed behind him. The rebels’ strike that morning had been their first since the death of the AME shield a month earlier, and they had all escaped New London before Roth could even make it downstairs to meet them. Grant would not be happy, but still: calling a meeting about it was a surprising response.
Roth scanned his keycard again at the entrance to Floor B and was met on the other side by Nathaniel Pearce, who had clearly been waiting.
What the hell is Grant’s smarmy smart-arse Chief Scientist doing here?
‘Ah, Oliver,’ Pearce said with his trademark grin. ‘We’re going to Iain’s office. Nick’s already there.’
‘Iain’s office?’ Roth laughed. ‘Seriously?’
‘He has his reasons. And he doesn’t want me to spoil them. Come along.’
Roth followed, noticing the disdain in Pearce’s voice despite his grin. That lifted his spirits a little. If something annoyed Nathaniel Pearce, it was likely to be good – or at least entertaining.
Oliver Roth had not seen the office since the night Iain Marshall had died in it: since the prisoner in the room had exploded with such force that the whole AME computer had been annihilated, along with everything else in the room including Marshall. Even after a month, Roth was surprised they’d finished scraping Joseph McCormick off the walls.
A couple of Floor B workers shot a glance at Roth as he passed. Perhaps he looked out of place with his combat boots marching across the carpeted corridor, with sweat dripping from his forehead and a loaded assault rifle instead of a suit and tie. Or maybe the stares were because of his reputation. They were in the presence of Nicholas Grant’s fourteen-year-old master assassin, slaughterer of countryside rebels – and occasional punisher of staff members when required.