“Four hours,” he says without turning around. “Time to move.”
Diego is already up, checking his wound, moving with the stiff caution of a man who knows his body but won’t let injuryslow him down. He catches me watching and offers a small smile.
“Ready?”
“No.” I stand, stretch muscles that ache from sleeping on a couch built for function, not comfort. “But let’s go anyway.”
Thorne hands us each a cup of coffee—black, bitter, strong enough to wake the dead. Then he nods toward the garage.
“Seattle’s thirty hours if we push it. I’ll drive the first leg. Halo, you’re on navigation. The lawyer sleeps.”
“I have a name.”
“I’m sure you do.” He pulls on his jacket and checks his weapon. “You can tell me on the road.”
We file out into the cold morning air. The SUV waits in the garage, patient and armored and ready to carry us west.
Diego pauses at the passenger door. Looks at me.
“Cassie.”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens next—Seattle, Nevada, Phoenix …” He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad it’s you.”
The words are simple. The weight behind them is not.
“I’m glad it’s you too,” I say.
Thorne clears his throat. “Touching. Can we move?”
We get in the SUV.
The engine starts. The garage door opens. The road stretches west, toward the mountains, toward Seattle, toward the team that’s gathering to fight an enemy none of them fully understand.
Behind us, the Terra Alta facility burns evidence, deploys search teams, and reports failure to something that exists in the spaces between servers.
Ahead of us, thirty-seven days and counting.
The clock is ticking.
But for the first time since Diego broke into my apartment, I feel like we might actually have a chance.
I settle into the backseat, coffee warming my hands, and watch the sunrise paint the mountains gold.
We’re not running anymore.
We’re going to war.
EIGHTEEN
“The Operator”
HALO
I waketo sunlight and the hum of tires on asphalt.
For a disorienting moment, I don’t know where I am. The seat beneath me is unfamiliar—leather, high-backed, the kind of seat that belongs in a vehicle built for war. My hand moves toward my weapon before my brain catches up with my body.
