Okay, we’ve just walked into a hotbed of Dallas’s pent-up energy. All the hurry up and waiting we’ve been doing for weeks has been a massive citywide mood killer. Judging by the amount of stimulants floating around the room—the colorful square patches of Tape seem to be the local upper of choice—and the numerous couples taking full advantage of the shadows, people are in serious need of letting off a bit of steam.

Blaise nudges my shoulder and nods to the source of a ruckus at the back of the bar. He’s easy to spot, since he’s a head above the others.

Zero surprises here, it’s Alexander, three sheets to the wind.

Even in his staggering state of belligerence, the ex-governor’s son somehow keeps his rumpled uniform tucked in and buttoned-up. While all the other patrons in this sweatbox of a speakeasy are practically wearing birthday suits, this stubborn lieutenant’s in a damn sauna suit.

I want to keel over just looking at him.

“Come on, put up a fight!” Alexander commands, slurring his words. Goading every citizen and off-duty Guard he teeters past, he juts out his square chin, begging someone to land a punch. “Hit me!”

“Oh, I wish I could,” I mutter. “If only to put you out of your misery. And mine.”

Usually when I come to collect the tormented man, he’s sedate and alone in a corner, staring off into the middle distance, no doubt nurturing the most macabre of outcomes for his kidnapped son.

But tonight, to the delight of many—and soon to be thousands, judging by the various tablets I spot recording—Alexander prowls through the inebriated crowd, screaming his lungs out, “Hit me! Take a swing! I dare you.”

Thank Goodwin all the onlookers think this is a joke. Even in the inky shadows of a power outage, no one would dare clock an officer. A fact that seems to rile Alexander, spurring him into a tantrum of rage. He gestures and postures, challenging any and all to take up his offer.

“Take . . . a . . . swing! You . . . scared?” Then a string of incoherence.

Why must he keep looking for trouble? Your fight’s not here, bud!

Blaise and I start to jostle our way over to him, but Alexander has unforeseen agility for a blitzed forty-something man. He crashes into tables and dancers, spilling spirits and wine all over his would-be aggressors, snatching up shot glasses, downing each one indiscriminately.

“Come on! We’re at war and no one’s ready to fight?” Alexander hollers. “Hit me! Or is this city llena de cabrones con pocos huevos?”

No idea what that last bit means, but it doesn’t sound like flattery.

“How’s the guy still on his feet?” Blaise asks, sounding impressed.

In my peripheral vision, I see a hulking figure rise from his chair. My eyes dart to the enormous man with an eight pack and a scowl so dark there’s a good chance he came from one of the governor’s liberated prison farms. He steps forward, ready to take up the offer. When he holds up his fists, both as big as sledgehammers, I know it’s time to panic. This guy was probably champion of some Warden’s illicit boxing ring. Alexander doesn’t stand a chance.

“He won’t be on his feet for long,” I say, rushing to get to Alexander first. “Buy me some time!” I shout over my shoulder, and Blaise darts to block the hulk-man’s path.

Weaving through a pack of dancers, I reach Alexander and immediately have to duck because the bastard throws a punch at me. “Hit me!” he demands.

“Hey!” I yell, out of swinging range. “It’s Owen. It’s time to go, bud!” No use. The man is totally face blind right now. He gears up for another blow.

“This is for your own good!” I promise Alexander, pinning his arms down. I then toss him over my shoulder like a two-hundred-pound sack of potatoes. “You’ll thank me later.”

Safety over dignity. He gave me no choice.

“Back door,” Blaise pants in my ear, at my side again. A quick glance to my right gives me a full view of the gigantic man splayed out on the floor.

“How the hell did you pull that off?” I ask, amazed.

Blaise’s eyes crinkle. “All that muscle means nothing up against a weapon.” He slips a taser gun into the pocket of his hoodie as a raucous crowd starts forming around the barrel-chested boxer, cheering for him to get up.

“Round two!” they chant.

All right, it’s time to blow this joint and get Alexander to my car, ASAP. But before we can make it to the exit, we’re cut off by a gaggle of teenagers.

“It’s him! Owen from the Wanted List!” a girl squeals. They all start jumping up and down, and I swear I see tears in their eyes.

“Owen, you’re my lionheart!” a boy screams.

“I love you!” some girl swears.

I take a step back at the sudden onslaught. There are too many of them to break through, and this attention is putting way too big a spotlight on us.

“This display is truly vomit inducing,” Blaise says, laughing like he always does at my newborn popularity. “Maybe it’s time for you to get a mask like mine.” He then adjusts his demon-faced bandana, takes a step forward, and proceeds to scare the living daylights out of the teens, letting loose a wail that will haunt their nightmares for the rest of their young lives.

Well, that was effective. They scatter faster than if the roof was on fire.

“Emilia!” Alexander bellows as we finally make it through the back door and out into the alley.

“Who?” Blaise asks.

“His wife—well, soon to be ex-wife,” I whisper. Sore subject. “Theo’s mom.”

Alexander’s six-foot frame drapes all the way down my backside. Let’s hope I can get him to my car before he has the chance to mistake me for Emilia and get handsy. One butt grab tonight was enough.

Ah, there’s Duke. Waiting just down the street, right where we left him. Blaise opens the passenger door, and I heave Alexander into the back seat.

“Stay put,” I say, strapping him in.

“She’s stuck at the northern border . . . can’t come here,” Alexander blabbers on. “Emilia says it’s my fault.”

Alexander’s crossed eyes suddenly snap into focus, staring straight at me. “I’m a failure,” he whispers, his hoarse voice catching.

“We’re all failures,” I reassure him, making sure Blaise doesn’t overhear.

I failed Rayla in the tunnels.

Alexander nods soberly and flails his arms around my neck in a sloppy hug. “I’ve lost . . . both my sons . . . to my con of a father.”

“Theo won’t be lost for long,” I confide, smiling from ear to ear. “We’ve got Roth’s Whiz Kid.”

Alexander takes this in with a blurry, nobody’s-home look, then proceeds to pass out on my shoulder.

Really? Tough audience tonight.

Well, he’s definitely going to wake up to an eye-opening surprise. We’re about to bag the most wanted man in America. By morning—hell, maybe within the hour—we could have the ex-governor Roth in our clutches. We could have Theo.

We could have victory.

All right, fine, we’re technically two degrees of separation from victory.

But the Whiz Kid is our link.

An IT genius, he’s the guy we think is responsible for setting up the ex-governor’s encrypted messaging system, allowing Roth to communicate without fear of prying eyes.