WE CAREFULLY PACK THE WRECKAGE WHILE CONGERS and Race call for additional security. By seven a.m., the block is crowded with black SUVs and dark-suited agents. A small group of them, including Agent Sung, gather in a cluster near Congers as he loads the box containing the scanner into the back of his SUV. Congers actually cracks a smile when one of his subordinates, a muscular dude named Devon with a weak chin and jug ears, jokes about finally discovering where the mythic Black Box factory is hidden.
I can’t help but notice Graham standing near the back of the truck where the H2 spaceship wreckage is being stowed, a few vehicles down from his dad and the entourage around him. The younger Congers wipes sweat from his brow as he tosses furtive glances toward his dad, like he wants to be in that group. Like he wants his dad to see him, working hard while the others slack off. For a second, I’m actually tempted to go over there and talk to Graham, but then Sung beats me to it. He hands Graham a bottle of water, and the two of them get to work loading the final crates of wreckage into the truck.
By the time we pull away from the curb and head for the highway, the sun is hanging over the rooftops and we’ve got a convoy of over a dozen vehicles weaving through mercifully light Manhattan traffic. When we get on the thruway, we pick up another several dozen, transforming into a jointed black caterpillar, following close as we move along the road toward the Catskills. It’s not like we’re keeping a low profile, but seeing as the Sicarii somehow knew where to find our one SUV last night, I think Congers is hoping to find safety in numbers—and decoys. Every few exits, chunks of the convoy peel off, each with a truck that looks exactly like the one that holds the wreckage. And when we exit, heading west toward the mountains with at least thirty vehicles trailing us, another part of the convoy continues, heading north.
In our vehicle, Leo, Christina, and I ride in the middle row. My mom’s in the back, with armed agents on either side, scanning the sky for Sicarii scout ships. Daniel Sung’s driving, and Graham’s looking sullen in the front passenger seat, his collar pulled high in a failed attempt to conceal the bruising I left on his throat. His eyes are on the clouds, as if one of them might be a threat. Our vehicle is armored and we’ve got ridiculous amounts of ammo in the back, but we’re vulnerable, and anyone who witnessed what happened last night knows it full well. Sung’s been pushing ninety miles per hour, and the other SUVs are keeping up.
As we take another turn and begin to trundle along the two-lane road that will take us deep into the Catskills, I’m tempted to drift, to pretend I’m here with just Christina, and we’re going camping or something stupid and normal like that. She’s nestled against my shoulder. Every time I think about what Willetts was trying to do to her—or, correction, what the Sicarii inside Willetts was trying to do—I have to muscle down a shudder.
I put my arm around her and hold her head to my chest as I watch fields and distant mountains pass in a blur of green. “My parents are so pissed,” she says quietly.
I bow my head. “Why did you come after me? You were supposed to stay with them.”
“Tate . . .” She looks up at me. “I knew you were in trouble. And when you didn’t come out of our apartment . . .” She shakes her head. “Don’t tell me you expected me to walk away from that.”
“You used my dad’s phone to call my mom, didn’t you?”
She nods. “She’d just gotten into the city. She’d gotten your message.”
“But you could have just told her what had happened.”
She bites her lip. “I know. It wasn’t enough.”
She wanted to save me. The feeling is so huge that it can’t fit inside me. It squeezes my lungs, making it hard to breathe. “You could have been killed. She shouldn’t have let you go with her.”
“I wouldn’t tell her what had happened until she agreed to let me go.”
“But your parents—”
“I’m an adult,” she says firmly. “They couldn’t stop me. Oh, and your mom told them she’d keep me safe. Tate, don’t you think what we’ve been through in the past week goes beyond whether we can get a hotel room for prom or whether I can pass a stupid chemistry exam? All of that feels petty and stupid now. All I care about is going through this with you.” She presses her cheek to my shoulder. “If those Core agents are right, it might be the only time we have left, and I’m not going to give that up.”
I want to promise her we’ll be okay, but she’s too smart for those words to give her comfort. So I kiss the top of her head and let my lips linger there as we reach a single-lane road marked with a simple “Authorized Personnel Only” sign. We’re entering a heavily wooded area, the foliage so dense that the late-morning sunshine barely pokes through. There’s no sign of buildings or any kind of development.
“This is the entrance to the grounds of Black Box,” my mother says to Sung. “They know you’re here, so proceed slowly.”
Graham peers through the trees.
“You won’t see the cameras,” Leo says. “Don’t bother.”
Graham rolls his eyes. “I’ve been to secure facilities before. You expect me to be impressed?” He squints as we roll along at ten miles per hour, and his jaw tenses as we pass another set of signs.
“DANGER: No Trespassing”
I look behind us to see dozens of vehicles snaking along the narrow road, so many that I can’t see the end of the convoy even though we’re headed down a long hill, giving me a good view of each SUV as it crests the peak. Congers and Race are near the rear, surrounded by even more heavily armed vehicles, with the scanner and the truck transporting the wreckage.
I meet my mom’s gaze. There’s something in her expression that catches me, but I can’t quite read it. Maybe it’s just being here again, for the first time since my dad’s death. He’s certainly on my mind, too. I face forward again, taking Christina’s hand as she sits up and tucks a lock of her dark blond hair behind her ear. The trees are sparser now, and we’re approaching a sheer cliff face, a gigantic wall of stone that juts up a few hundred feet above the trees and has a smooth, even rim. It looks like a man-made plateau with a perfectly flat top. The signs around this spot are a little more specific.
“Trespassers Beyond This Point Will Be Met with Lethal Force”
“That’s it,” says my mom.
Christina leans forward, her gaze skimming up the gray and craggy cliff. “Black Box is inside a mountain?”
Graham and Sung stare at the rocky fortress. It’s so huge that we can’t see around or over it. We can’t even see where it ends on either side. Neither agent looks eager to go in.
Congers’s voice splits the silence. There’s desperation in every word as he shouts over the radio: “Clear the road; bogie at our six—”
His voice cuts off abruptly as a deep boom echoes behind us. Leo, who’s squinting out the back, yelps, “The Sicarii!” at the same time Graham shouts, “How did they know?”
Probably out of reflex and panic, Sung slams on the brakes, bringing us to a grinding halt about a hundred yards from the cliff face. The vehicle behind us nearly slams into our bumper. The rest of the convoy is pulling to the side of the road, making way for the rear vehicle and the truck containing the wreckage, which are racing down the hill, honking nonstop—right as a Sicarii scout ship rises above the peak of the hill.
Mom shouts, “Go! The tunnel’s right in front of you!”
Sung’s gaze is riveted on his rearview mirror as he tries to see the threat, but Graham punches at the steering wheel and roars, “Sung, just go!”
Sung curses and stomps on the gas. We barrel toward the vertical rock face until we’re close enough to see the massive, camouflage-painted metal doors set into its surface. “Will it open?” Sung shouts as we speed within a dozen yards of the cliff. But even as he says it, the doors swing inward, revealing a tunnel leading into the mountain. It’s just wide enough to fit two SUVs side by side, but it’s high enough to accommodate almost any kind of load.
“Congers has the scanner in his vehicle,” my mom says loudly, peering out the back window, where we can see his SUV barreling toward us. “He needs to get into the tun—”
Her words are drowned out by another explosion. One of the Core vehicles behind us spins into the air like a toy, flames shooting from the windows. It comes down with a crash onto the road, blocking the progress of Congers’s vehicle and the truck carrying the wreckage. With SUVs clustered on either side of the road, Congers and Race are boxed in and won’t be able to get to the tunnel. They’re caught out in the open, and the obelisk-shaped Sicarii ship is right on top of them. I shout for Sung to stop and let me out, but he shoots into the tunnel with single-minded purpose. He goes about a hundred yards and ignores at least five of my commands to halt before he applies the brakes. By that time, I’m made of adrenaline, every muscle jacked. The scanner. They’re going to get the scanner. As soon as we’ve slowed, I throw the door open. Christina grabs my wrist, but I tear my arm away.
“I won’t let them have it,” I snap as the passenger door sends sparks off the stone wall of the tunnel. Sung notices that I’m getting out and finally lurches to a complete stop, but before he does, I’m gone, sprinting back toward the fiery glow that makes my stomach twist.
About a dozen vehicles have made it into the tunnel, and agents are pouring out of them, pulling grenade launchers and firing questions at one another as they make their way back toward the tunnel entrance. “Don’t let that ship land!” I shout as I shove into their midst. If the Sicarii get the wreckage or the scanner, we could be doomed. My legs propel me past at least four SUVs, but the press of agents on either side slows me down, so I jump on top of one of the SUVs and go right down the row, leaping from roof to roof, desperate to get to my dad’s invention, to do anything I can to stop these alien bastards from killing our chances of saving ourselves and our planet.
The explosions from outside shake rocky debris loose from the roof of the tunnel, pelting my shoulders and head with shards of stone. That Sicarii ship is taking out the SUVs one by one as the agents try to respond with fire of their own, everything from sidearms to grenade launchers. From behind me, someone calls my name, maybe my mom, but I keep going. There’s a wrecked SUV in the middle of the road about twenty yards from the tunnel entrance, flames eating it alive. I swear, I can see a black silhouette inside, human and helpless. Or maybe H2. It doesn’t seem to matter as the fire turns flesh to sooty carbon nothing. But just beyond it is my destination—through the smoke, I can see Congers’s heat-warped silhouette as he leaps from his vehicle.
“Tate!” It’s my mom, only a few cars behind me. I glance over my shoulder as I jump from the roof of the final SUV in the line. My mom pushes her dark hair out of her eyes and points upward. “The Black Box defenses will be triggered if the scout ship flies above the edge of the crater rim! The ship is too low and too close to the mountainside right now!”
“I got it, Mom. Get deeper inside the tunnel.” Without waiting to see if she listens to me, I scramble to the metal doors that mark the entrance of the tunnel. Heat bathes my face as I peer up the steep hill. At least two hundred feet above me, the rock gives way to sky. If Mom’s right, reinforcements are available—as long as I can get the Sicarii to fly a little higher.
The obelisk ship is just above the leafy branches, spinning this way and that to avoid the rocket-propelled grenades that are going off like fireworks, setting fire to the forest. Congers and Race are beside their vehicle, shielding their eyes from the explosions all around them as they try to direct a group of agents—including Devon, the weak-chinned guy who was dying to know where Black Box was—who are pinned down near a cluster of trees nearby. Devon makes like he wants to run toward Race and Congers, but they shout at him and the others to get to the tunnel.
I stay low and sprint toward the burning vehicle that stands between me and the scanner. We have to get the device into the tunnel, where the obelisk ship can’t follow. If the Sicarii wanted to destroy it, this would all be over, but since they haven’t fired on Congers’s vehicle, I have to believe they somehow know it’s in there—and that they want it.
That’s going to work to our advantage. I sprint for Race’s vehicle as the agents at the tunnel entrance fire a furious volley at the hovering ship. It spins gracefully, dodging the projectiles, but doesn’t move lower. Its spiraling hatch slowly opens, and Race shouts and waves to his men, all urgency and noise. As I run toward him, I catch the desperation in his eyes. He cares for his agents. He doesn’t want them to die.
But when the Sicarii ship lets loose, there’s not a thing he can do. The hellish ball of bright yellow fire shoots from that hatch and roars over my head, hitting right at the tunnel entrance. Agonized screams fill the air as I’m thrown forward by the blast wave. I push myself off the soft, leaf-strewn dirt, my ears ringing, my heart pounding, and stumble around SUV wreckage to get to Congers and Race, whose brow furrows when he sees me. “Get away from here,” he roars.
“They want the scanner!”
“And we’re defending it!” Congers shouts, even as he hefts a grenade launcher onto his shoulder.
Not enough. It’s only a matter of time before the Core can’t hold that ship back. “Diversion,” I say to Race, right in his ear, shielding my mouth just in case the Sicarii can somehow read lips. Hell, they found us here and they know where the scanner is, so I wouldn’t put it past them. “When I go, get the device up your shirt and run for the tunnel.”
His face crumples in confusion. “When you go . . . what?”
I ignore him and dive into the vehicle, frantically looking around for what I need. Then my eyes light on the stereo. As a boom outside tells me Congers has fired his grenade, I remove the plastic cover and pry off the black rectangular ring that protects the edges of the stereo itself. I duck outside again and rip the Swiss army knife from Congers’s belt. He doesn’t seem to notice because he’s so busy reloading his weapon. The obelisk ship is only about thirty feet overhead, firing deep, percussive blasts at the few SUVs that haven’t been destroyed. Everything is burning. Bodies are scattered near tree trunks and beside flaming vehicles. Survivors like Devon have nowhere to run now, because smoke is billowing from the tunnel. I have no idea if anyone in there—including my mother, Christina, and Leo—is still alive, but I have to make this stop. I want that ship to burn. If it’s killed the last few people I love, this is about more than survival—it’s about revenge. I duck back into the SUV and try to steady my shaking hand as I run the knife around the edge of the stereo, feeling the metal catches give one by one. My blunt fingernails chip and give as I pry the block of metal and plastic from its slot.
I’m praying that the Sicarii don’t know what the scanner actually looks like.
I tuck the stereo against my chest and slide outside again. My fingers clamp onto Race’s shoulder. “I’m going to draw them away,” I say, leaning close. “When I’ve got their attention, get the scanner to the tunnel.”
“No,” he says, reaching for my arm, but he’s too slow. I’m already ten feet from the road, hurdling burning debris that singes my legs and fills my nose with acrid fumes. I push all my fears away as I dodge and weave through the trees, their leafy canopies aflame, sparks and ash raining down. The mountain looms to my right, steep and menacing, and I peer through the smoky haze, looking for a route to the top. Blinking, I pause in a spot between two trees and turn toward the obelisk, which already seems to be tracking me. I make an obvious sort of movement with my arms, cradling the stereo protectively as the brutally elegant silhouette of the silver ship blocks out the sun. A thrill of grim pleasure shimmies through me when I realize it’s slowly moving toward me.
Perfect.
But only if I’m fast enough. Only if I’m strong enough. I run through the trees, farther away from the tunnel entrance, to a spot where I can get a foothold. I shove the stereo into the back of my pants as I sprint—I need both hands if I want to make it to the top.
I’m only a few feet from the cliff face when someone crashes into me from behind. My forehead slams against stone. I’m ripped away from the wall of rock a second later, arms flailing. Hard fingers tear at the back of my shorts and shirt, and I pivot, smashing my foot into my attacker’s knee. He roars and lets go of me, but when I turn to face him, he’s already raised his gun.
It’s Devon, grimacing as he shifts his weight to his uninjured leg. His gaze darts up to the ship overhead and then returns to me. “Surrender the device,” he says calmly.
I try to swallow, but my mouth is so goddamn dry. I hold my hands out to the side and slowly reach for the stereo that’s jammed under my waistband. “How long have you been inside that agent’s body?”
Devon tilts his head and gives me a quizzical look. “I don’t want to kill you. Give me the device.”
I glance toward the tunnel, but it’s too smoky to see the entrance. If I hand Devon the stereo, he’ll know in a second that it’s fake, and he and the ship will refocus on Race and Congers. But if I don’t hand him the stereo, he’s going to—
There’s a sharp crack, and Devon jerks to the side, then falls, the side of his head shattered and bloody. I look over to see Race disappearing behind a giant oak, semi-auto in his hand. He’s given me a second chance, and I won’t waste it. I spin around and leap onto the vertical rock face, digging my fingers in. The toes of my sneakers wedge into cracks in the stones, and I’m moving. Up. Straight up. This whole plan is only going to work if I get to the top, and maybe not even then. But if all I end up doing is helping Race get the real scanner safely into the tunnel, then that’s good enough.
Fingers hook over rock. Heave. Find a foothold. Surge upward. Jam my hands into a crack. Repeat. Repeat. I climb the cliff face with a frenetic energy fed by terror and determination. Searing heat licks at my spine, at the hairs on the back of my neck. The scout ship must be moving closer. It’s so quiet—all I can hear is a low hum—but I know it’s coming to get me—and what it thinks is the scanner.
They’d gotten to an H2 agent. Somehow, one of those aliens crawled inside him and took him over. No idea how—through his mouth, his skin, his too-large jug ears . . . I have to stop thinking about what it might be like to have a Sicarii invade my body. The merest inkling saps strength from muscles that need every ounce of blood and hope I can possibly give them. Fingers. Toes. Quadriceps. Biceps. Move. Climb. My pulse beats hot inside my head. My ears are awash with white noise. Time stops.
A rocket-propelled grenade slams into the cliff face about twenty feet above me, and I nearly lose my grip. “Hold your fire!” I yelp as rocks dash against my shoulders and arms, already knowing no one will hear me. Race must have rallied the surviving Core agents, and they’re firing at the ship.
If they’re not careful, they’re going to knock me off the side of this cliff.
The low hum from the scout ship intensifies, and the loud explosion that follows tells me that it’s taken a more permanent approach to the problem of ground fire. Sweat trickles down my back as I hear shouts and screams from below, making the metal stereo slip and scrape against my bare skin. Up. Up. I won’t stop. I won’t slow. My breath bursts from my lungs as I propel myself upward with frenetic speed. The top of the cliff is only about fifty feet above me now. My arms and legs destroy the distance; my lizard brain has taken over. At any moment, I could be blasted off the side of this rock, but the Sicarii ship floats behind me, graceful and quiet, maybe waiting for me to fall so it can catch me and take everything that’s mine. Or maybe waiting for me to get to the top so it can land and scoop me up.
But if I heard my mom correctly, that’s not going to happen. The defenses will be triggered if I can lure the ship above the edge of the plateau.
As I make yet another leap upward, my hand slips and my feet scrabble at the rock, trying to find purchase. For a few seconds, I’m still, clinging precariously with one good toehold and the fingers of one hand jammed deep into a crack. The lights from the ship brighten, turning the cliff face white and shimmering, and with a jolt of panic I’m moving again. Thirty feet. Lunge. Twenty feet. Go. Ten feet. Almost there. I heave myself onto the plateau at the top of the cliff, looking around with desperation and hope, gasping for air, praying for big guns or lasers or cannons or a squad of freaking special forces or whatever the fuck’s going to keep this Sicarii ship from getting me.
What I see is . . . not much. The plateau is unnaturally flat and circular, at least one mile in diameter. There’s a crater in the middle, protected by a rim that’s at least a hundred yards thick . . . and in the center is a giant, empty bowl, from what I can see. No factory, no weapons. Nothing.
With dread flooding my insides, I whirl around to see the Sicarii ship rise above the edge of the plateau. I wish I knew whether Race and Congers made it safely to the tunnel with the scanner and the wreckage. Whether this was worth it.
I pull the stereo from the back of my pants and wave it at the ship. “Want it?” I shout.
It moves closer. It gives off electrical pulses that I feel beneath my skin, like it’s mapping all my weaknesses. I fold my arms over the stereo.
I’m about to start running along the plateau toward the crater, ready to hurl myself in if nothing else, when the ground trembles beneath my feet. The sound of rock sliding over rock makes my breath catch in my throat. It’s a mechanical noise, very controlled. Gray shapes rise smoothly from the plateau all around me, the sun glinting off the metal panels. They give off a hum all their own as they spin into position.
Surface-to-air missile batteries. Five of them, positioned at intervals along the edge of the cliff. In the moment it takes me to breathe, they lock on to the Sicarii ship.
It’s completely still for a moment, like the pilot inside is gauging the threat. Then, faster than anything I’ve ever seen, it streaks away over the trees.
Each of the missile batteries fires, rocketing toward the target that’s hurtling over the forest, over the hill. Faster, I think, but after a second or two, I know it’s no good. The Sicarii ship disappears behind a mountain miles away. The missiles slam into the base of that mountain a moment later, shaking the ground. And then suddenly, there’s an eerie sort of quiet, and I don’t know if we’ve won or lost.
I sink to my knees, all the panic and pain of the last several minutes hitting me at once and siphoning my strength away. The stereo clatters onto the rock next to me. My head hangs as I try to stand, to go see what’s left of the Core, to find out if Christina, Leo, and my mom made it through.
Before I can, a whirring noise to my left has me crouching low, watching silently as a metal hatch slides open near the inner edge of the crater. A huge bear of a man emerges, followed by four other men, all armed.
All aiming weapons at me.
The enormous man strides toward me. Sunlight glints off blond strands in his thick red hair and beard. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he peers at the stereo and then at me. “You look a lot like Fred Archer,” he says in a rumbling voice.
“That’s because I’m his son.”
The man smiles, but it’s not a jovial sort of thing. It’s tinged with ferocity and war. I’m suddenly sure that he’s the one who gave the order to fire on the Sicarii ship. “I’m Angus McClaren,” he says. He gestures at his men, who immediately lower their weapons. “And you must be Tate. Welcome to Black Box.”