Ever since Oz’s capture two days before, Luke had been waiting for the tap on his shoulder, the grip round his arm. Or, just possibly, the baton to his skull.

But even when you were expecting it, your heart still half fell out of your chest when it came.

He’d just finished his shift, and had exchanged the searing heat of the components shed for the freezing streets. It was already dark, and dense flurries of sleet reduced visibility to almost nothing. He was only a few blocks from the Zone D gates when a hand tugged his sleeve. Luke’s pulse exploded and he bolted.

But not so fast that he didn’t hear a hissed “It’s me!” behind him.

He skidded on the wet pavement and turned.

“We’re getting ’im out tonight,” Renie said. She was standing in the alleyway, the sleet curdling around her in the yellow lamplight. “Oz. We need a ride. One of them shuttles to the outside. I’ve found us one. It’s in the depot for repairs. You’ve gotta make sure it’s okay and kill its GPS tracker.”

Luke boggled at her. Helping your dad fix up a vintage car didn’t exactly give you the skills for that sort of thing.

“We’ve gotta do it,” Renie said. “For ’im.”

So they did.

The van was exactly like the one that had carted Luke off to Millmoor. It triggered awful memories, of both that first day and Kessler in the storeroom. He was momentarily paralyzed with fear that they’d be caught in here.

He screwed his eyes shut and willed his hands to stop trembling. Told himself he could trust Renie to keep lookout, just as she’d trusted him to anchor the rope on the MADhouse roof.

With that realization, something inside him sparked. A small but crucial connection that sent the engine of his courage sputtering into life. Then revving and roaring.

Trust was what made everything possible. Trust lent you someone else’s eyes, someone else’s strong arms or quick brain. Made you bigger than just yourself. Trust was how the club worked. How this whole reckless dream of abolition could work, if people could just come together and hold their nerve. Not even the Equals—not even their Skill—would be more powerful than that.

Fixing the van itself was almost easy. Details of the repairs needed were on a clipboard hung on the wall. The vehicle’s key dangled from a row of hooks. The security seemed pretty lax—just a few CCTV cameras, which Renie had either navigated them past or disabled.

“Ha,” she said, when he pointed this out. “It’s not getting these wheels out of the depot that’s the difficult bit. It’s going to be getting ’em out of Millmoor. Three rings of Security and two chip-checks like what you have in Zone D.”

Which made it sound impossible.

“That’s where Angel comes in. She runs the Riverhead railroad. Smugglin’ people outta places is her specialty. She don’t normally do it like this, though. It’s usually lorries, hidden compartments, trusted drivers, that sort of thing. But our pal Oz is special delivery, so Angel’s comin’ here herself. Tonight.”

“Angel? Not an entirely reassuring name.”

Renie cocked her head, amused. “It’s not her real name. None of us know that. But we call her our Angel of the North. You know, like that big sculpture with wings up by Riverhead. And also—well, you’ll see.” The kid cackled. “Anyway, are we done here?”

They were. Luke pocketed the keys.

Renie navigated them across town to the rendezvous point—a dusty storeroom where long-dead paperwork lay coffined in archive boxes. There they found only Jackson, still and calm, and Jessie, pacing like she wanted to wear a hole in the ground that Oz could crawl through to Australia.

“Why are we still waiting, Jack? Who knows what they’re doing to him?”

Jess dashed at the tears spilling from her eyes with a violence that was half fury, half despair. Guilt, too, Luke suspected, given that she had escaped while Oz had been captured. The sight of her wrung his heart.

“We all know the drill, Jessica,” the Doc said. “No rescue attempts for the first forty-eight hours. Prisoners are too closely guarded and there’s insufficient time to establish Security routines. Hilda’s been monitoring the camera feed from the cell, so we know Oz is okay. Not great—they’ve been beating on him pretty hard—but nothing that won’t mend. Plus, we’ve had to work out how to get him out. Angel will be here any minute, and then we go.”

“You think she’ll manage it?” sniffed Jess, her voice as raw as if she’d done a few shifts back to back in the Zone D stokeholes.

Something unreadable flashed across Jackson’s face. “She’s never failed anyone yet. I’ve not been in Millmoor a year, but she’s been doing this sort of thing far longer than that. I trust her with my life, and—which is saying rather more—with the lives of all of you. Luke’s sorted the vehicle, now I need you to get Angel to it. You can’t stay here and I’m not going to risk you coming with us.”

“I can’t believe you’re taking those kids and not me,” Jessica burst out. “I swear, if those Security bastards have done anything to him…”

“Which is exactly why I’m not taking you. Sit down, Jessie. Deep breaths. This rescue is happening and we’re going to get Oz out.”

Squatting on the floor, listening, Luke’s brain caught up with what Jessica had just said. Taking those kids.

The only kids in the room were Renie and Luke himself. They were the only other people in the room, full stop. Renie had told him that Asif and the ditcher sisters were doing their techno-whizzy things at separate locations, monitoring the detention center remotely. The Doc wore some kind of earpiece that crackled occasionally as they spoke to him.

Jessie slumped against a stack of boxes, head down. Apart from her uneven breathing, the room was quiet. Jackson walked over to Luke, who was suddenly hyperaware of Renie watching them both.

“I’m not taking you anywhere you don’t want to go,” Jackson said. “But Jess is right. I’d like you to come with me and Renie. Oz is a big guy, and he may need help getting on his feet and moving.”

Jessica stifled a sob.

“We’ve got to get in and out as fast as possible. I’m not going to be able to give him any medical assistance until we’re away from the building. If we encounter anyone, I’ll need to deal with them. Hopefully we won’t, because Asif and the girls will be following the whole thing and telling us when it’s clear. But this all means you’ll need to look after Oz.”

“Won’t it look suspect, you being in there with kids—I mean, someone as young as Renie?” Luke said.

“Renie will wait at the entrance, to alert us to anything outside that the others don’t catch on the cameras and comms. You’re big enough to pass for Security. Renie’s been clothes shopping and has a uniform that’ll fit you. Luke, I won’t let this go wrong.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Jess said bitterly.

“Oh, it’s not a promise,” said a low, unfamiliar voice with just a hint of a Newcastle accent. “It’s a fact. Hello, Dr. Jackson.”

The Angel of the North.

As she joined them under the flickering strip light, Luke immediately understood the other reason for her nickname.

She was tall and blond and utterly gorgeous. Like something out of a magazine—those pictures teachers always told you were airbrushed, so normal girls shouldn’t feel inadequate trying to match them. But this woman was perfect just as she was. Perfect like an angel in a church window, or a lingerie advert. A single immaculate snowflake fallen into Millmoor’s filthy streets.

“Hi, Renie,” said Angel, with a nod of acknowledgment. “And you must be Jessica. I know you’re awfully worried about Oswald, but he’s going to be safe now. And you’ll be Luke. I’ve heard all about you.”

“You’re…Angel,” Luke said, offering his hand for her to shake. And really, who knew it was possible for his palm to perspire that much in just ten seconds flat? Her touch tingled across it like electricity. “I asked…” He laughed nervously. “I asked Renie why they call you that. But I guess now I know.”

She smiled. Luke didn’t think there could be anything in the world more magical than that smile, not even Skill itself. His face heated as if he stood in the components shed. She was older than him. But not by much. Surely not by much?

No point wondering, Luke Hadley. Angel was out of his league by every measure he could possibly imagine.

If this rescue mission succeeded, would she be impressed?

If it failed, would she come and break him out?

“I was just telling the Doc that I’m ready,” he told her. “And I’ve fixed the vehicle. For you. It’ll give you no problems.”

He really, really hoped that was true.

Jackson’s earpiece was hissing, the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling as he concentrated on what Asif was saying. Then he looked up.

“There’s a low-footfall window in twenty-eight minutes. So here’s what we’re going to do.”

—

It was nearly nine o’clock when they reached the detention center. Oz was being held separately from the others on the high-security corridor of the remand wing. That was good, because there’d be less general traffic to notice them; but also bad, because anyone they did encounter would be there for the same reason they were—to see Oz.

Renie slipped into the darkness as they reached the entrance.

“Good luck,” she muttered. “See ya soon.”

Then they were in—just him and Jackson.

Security, like the Administration workers, weren’t slaves. The architects of the system had been careful to ensure there’d be no common cause between the slaves and those keeping them in line. That meant there wasn’t a gate registering the chips of those passing through. Instead, an entry team used handheld devices to check either the wrist cuffs that stored Security IDs or the flesh-embedded chips of slaves brought in as prisoners.

“There are two different scanners,” Jackson had explained. “They’ll see the Security uniform and use the one for the cuffs.”

Luke’s legs were as wobbly as that time he’d taken Daisy to an ice rink and made a fool of himself falling over. As though they might shoot in opposite directions and dump him on his backside with no warning at all. Keep it together, he thought, tensing his muscles to remind himself they were still there.

“We’re here for Walcott G-2159,” the Doc told the guard at the entrance, holding out his right arm for scanning. Worn by all Millmoor’s free workers, wrist cuffs were attached at the slavetown’s outermost entry stations as workers arrived, and removed as they left. Luke wondered how the club had acquired the two he and Jackson were wearing.

“Didn’t think you looked familiar,” said the guard. “You’re specials from the MADhouse. What’s it like servicing the glorious leader herself? Nah, don’t answer that. Don’t want to know.” He chuckled to himself. “We had word someone was coming for Walcott. Didn’t know exactly when, though. Don’t reckon the Overbitch’ll get much joy from him tonight, the state he’s in.”

The man laughed again, as if this observation was equally amusing. Did they deliberately recruit people who’d had compassion bypasses, or did doing this sort of job make you that way?

Luke obediently held up his wrist to be scanned, too. So they’d been expecting someone to come for Oz. Was the club so good that they’d already planted false authorizations in Security’s system?

But it didn’t seem so, because as they passed into the detention center’s corridors, Jackson’s face was drawn tight with concern. Luke heard him cup his hand and mutter a few words that would reach his earpiece. The crackling response had him shaking his head in frustration.

The building was sterile and pitiless. The floor was polished concrete and echoed so loudly beneath their boots that Luke cringed. His brain started up a traitorous chant in time with their footsteps: Break. Out. Break. Out. He was half astonished that no one else could hear it. Surely they couldn’t hope to get away with this?

But no. He remembered a conversation with Asif. The guy was a tech whiz who’d been building his own computing arrays from childhood. Technology, Asif had told him, was a simple thing that everyone had convinced themselves was complex. It was fallible, but everyone believed it to be faultless. People had delegated their better judgment—and the evidence of their own senses—to the power of technology. If you could fool the tech, you needn’t worry about fooling the people.

So their uniforms and ID cuffs saw them through a second manned door, and then a third verification point. Here they had to press the bands against a panel set into the wall. The last stage was the entrance to the high-security wing.

“You lot are keen,” said the guard there as he took out a set of old-fashioned keys. They unlocked two sets of double-bolted barred doors, like wild-animal cages. “Only got the final say-so ten minutes ago. So where’s the lord and master—waiting back at the MADhouse with your boss, eh? Guess he decided doing it here wasn’t to his liking. Too near the common folk, eh? At least using his Skill, he won’t have to worry about getting blood on her carpet. Though I daresay Daddy Jardine’s got enough money to pay for a new one.”

Thankfully, the guy was bent over the locks as he spoke, because even Jackson’s composure slipped. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to make sense of what had just been said.

Luke’s brain was whirring, too. The name “Jardine” had been distracting, making Luke think of Kyneston and his family, but one thing was clear from the guard’s words and the Doc’s reaction. They weren’t the only ones coming for Oz.

The open-barred cells beyond didn’t contain the stench. It was a rancid blend of everything revolting that could come out of a human body. At first Luke strained to make out the huddled shape of Oz on the floor. When he did, he really wished he hadn’t. The guard aimed a flashlight so bright it was effectively weaponized straight at Oz’s face. The only small mercy was that his eyes were swollen completely shut. Oz couldn’t have opened them into that blinding glare even if he’d wanted to.

“Up you get,” said the guard, poking Oz with his baton. “The Overseer and Heir Gavar Jardine request the honor of your company at a party for one. And you’ve not bothered to dress for it. Tut-tut.”

Luke’s fists clenched. Oz didn’t move.

“Dunno if he can stand,” said the guard. “Reckon you might have to drag him.”

“I’ll deal with this,” said Jackson, stepping forward.

He crouched down by Oz. Could their friend even recognize him? Oz gave no sign. But he yielded up a sudden, almighty moan and rolled onto all fours. The Doc must have jabbed him with a shot of adrenaline.

“Get up,” Jackson said, making his voice hard and indifferent. Then to Luke: “Get him moving.”

Luke grabbed Oz by the back of his jumpsuit and hauled. Oz came up slowly, but at least partly under his own strength. Thank goodness. Nothing broken, then.

Apart from his nose, perhaps. Probably a cheekbone. Maybe an eye socket. There was no way Jessica could have coped with seeing him like this, in here.

“We’ll be going,” Jackson told the guard. “Don’t want to keep our betters waiting.”

The cell guard shrugged. “Good riddance to that one. He kept quiet in interrogations—daresay he fancies himself a tough guy. But when he was by himself you’d hear him crying like a girl. Hope your boss gets more out of him than the lads here managed.”

Fortunately, both of Luke’s hands were clenched in Oz’s coveralls, the fabric stiff and sticky, because everything in him ached to give this scumbag a pasting.

Once back out through the barred doors, Jackson and Luke supported Oz through the corridors. Oz had somehow cracked one eyelid open, and a tiny black pupil swimming in bloodshot sclera peered out at them, like the eye of a deep-sea creature fathoms down. Could he see clearly enough to recognize them? Luke hoped so.

Jackson’s earpiece hissed in a different pitch than before. Renie, must be.

“Keep walking,” said the Doc when the sound stopped, “and don’t hesitate. On the other side of the second checkpoint, we’re going to meet some people. Ignore them. You know the pickup point. We’ll take Oz straight there. If I get caught up in anything, you keep going. Don’t wait for me. Get him in that vehicle and away.”

A fist-sized lump of dread lodged itself in Luke’s throat, but he swallowed it down. He let his gaze fall slightly out of focus, in that dead-eyed way Security often had. He was Security. He had the ID to prove it.

At the second checkpoint Luke said nothing as he held out the cuff. Didn’t let himself wince when Oz groaned as the guard grabbed his arm to run the chip-sensing device over it.

“You got the alert?” the Doc asked as he submitted his wrist. “I think news travels faster across our network than it does on general comms. Because you really don’t want to miss it. Screw up and they’d put you in this one’s old cell.”

Jackson gave Oz a nudge that made him stumble, and laughed nastily.

“Alert? What?” The guard screwed up his face anxiously.

“You’ve not heard? Rescue attempt. Seems Walcott’s associates have been listening in on your piece-of-junk channel and are on their way to free him. That’s why we got dispatched in a hurry. I’ll be sorry to miss it. They’ve got some bloke posing as Heir Jardine himself. Except I guess they never checked the photos, ’cause they’re trying to pass off some red-haired dude. Everyone knows the Jardines are blond.”

“They are?” The man’s face was ashen. He revolved the cuff on his wrist and swiped the display. “No notification. Why are we always the last to know? How am I supposed to stop them?”

“Better share it with your colleague at the entrance,” said the Doc. “If I were you guys, I’d let them through, then keep them locked in. You’ll have caught them all by yourself, and they’ll be where they’re going to end up anyway, in the max wing. Job done.”

The relief on the man’s face was palpable. “Yeah. Yeah, neat. Thanks.”

And on they went, leaving the guard calling up his colleague on his helmet’s mike. Up ahead came the bang and echo of the concrete floor. It was hard to tell how many pairs of feet were headed toward them. Three?

“We’re into the general remand space,” Jackson said, low and fast. “So our prisoner could be anyone. Gavar Jardine will almost certainly be with the Overseer’s personal Security, so they won’t know Oz on sight, either. Not that his own mother would know him, given the mess he’s in. Keep walking.”

They were one turn away from the entrance when the others came round the corner. And the hairs on Luke’s arm lifted the minute he saw him.

Gavar Jardine was a monster of a man. Well over six feet tall, with a black leather overcoat falling from his wide shoulders to the top of his leather biker boots. Black gloves.

But the psycho outfit was the least scary thing about him. The Jardine heir could have been wearing Happy Panda pajamas, and he still would’ve been the most terrifying person Luke had ever seen. Abi had shown them all pictures, but no photo could prepare you for the reality of an Equal in the flesh. And there was a whole family of them. Abi worked in their office. Mum nursed one of them. Hopefully Daisy was at least keeping clear.

“We’ll get in front. Eyes down,” hissed Jackson.

And just like that, the groups were passing: Luke and Jackson together, Oz half shielded behind them; Gavar Jardine striding ahead. The two Security men were so intent on keeping up that they didn’t spare them a second glance.

Luke’s bones felt as if they’d been replaced by unsteady stacks of ball bearings. Any minute now, he’d fall apart.

But not yet. Not until he’d got Oz to safety.

The guy at the entrance was wide-eyed, ready with two scanners.

“You saw ’em?” he whispered, and the Doc nodded. “You guys were just in time. They’ve got some nerve, though—gotta hand it to them. Backup’s on the way once they’ve been contained. You get the prisoner delivered.”

Jackson nodded—and just like that, they were out into the freezing night.

As they crossed the road, a small shadow detached itself and followed them. They walked two streets, then Jackson propped Oz up against a wall. He took the big guy’s face between his hands, ever so gently thumbed up his eyelids.

“Nearly there, big fella. You’re safe now.”

Jackson’s very presence restored life to Oz. The puffy eyelids forced themselves open. A tongue licked at swollen, split lips. Renie put a water bottle to Oz’s mouth and he gulped eagerly. His hand came up to feel his face.

“Not like I was ever pretty,” Oz croaked, and Luke thought he’d never in his life been happier to hear a rubbish joke.

Then from the direction of the detention center, the muffled sound of an explosion was magnified by the hollow night.

“Take him, Luke,” Jackson said. “You too, Renie. Get him to the pickup point as fast as you can. There’s not a minute to lose.”

“Why?” Renie was all eyes. “What was that?”

“That was Gavar Jardine.”

Jackson turned and ran back the way they’d come. There was shouting behind them now. Confused noise. The wet, sleety air crackled.

“This way,” Renie said. “Angel’s ready with the van.”

Luke had half hustled, half dragged Oz the length of one more street when he heard the sound of gunshots. Once. Twice. The second time there was an awful cry.

Luke couldn’t be sure, but it sounded a lot like Jackson.

“Wasn’t ’im,” Renie said fiercely, pulling at Luke’s sleeve. “Wasn’t.”

In the fourth street sat the van. As they hurried toward it, a figure came running. Jessica.

She threw herself at Oz, as if she could hold him up all by herself. She couldn’t, of course. Renie pushed the messy tangle of the three of them in the direction of the van, then yanked Jessica’s arm away so Luke had room to fold Oz onto the backseat. Jess gave a sob and pressed her face against his soiled jumpsuit, and from the darkness of the van a large, mangled paw reached out to pet her hair. Jessie grabbed it and kissed it.

“We’ve got to get moving, Jess.”

Then Renie’s face was lit up by a freakish glare as a plume of chemical fire shot high over buildings several blocks away. Foul, acrid smoke drifted toward them, and Luke tasted it as he heard the patter of debris raining down on a rooftop nearby.

“Time to go,” said a voice from the driver’s seat. “Close it up, Renie.”

Angel. Luke had forgotten all about her. Looking at her face as she leaned out of the window, he wondered how that had been possible. Her blond hair was stuffed up under a beanie hat and both hands gripped the wheel.

“He’s safe now, I promise. Don’t worry about Jackson; he’ll be fine, too. Just look out for yourselves. Split up. Go home. Take different routes—not that direction, obviously.”

Angel nodded at where the smoke was still pluming upward. The sky was lit with unpleasant shades of blue and orange, resembling a fireworks show for the color-blind.

The engine was already running. As she tested the accelerator Luke stayed stupidly where he was, staring through the open cab window.

Then she reached out and—unbelievably—touched her fingers to his cheek. He felt that electric tingle again, and couldn’t take his eyes from her perfect face.

“Be safe, Luke Hadley,” Angel said.

She gunned the engine and the vehicle tore away into the night.