She turns to look Alexander square in the eye. “If the government can’t protect us, then we have no choice left but to protect ourselves.” She rises to her feet. “The People’s Militia is true to its name. We have no other master but the people.”

“Satisfied?” Skye challenges.

As if answering on Alexander’s behalf, Owen opens both of Duke’s winged doors.

Everyone files out except Mira.

“Are you sure this is safe?” she whispers, trying to conceal her hesitation. She cracks her knuckles again.

“Have we ever had a ‘safe’ day in our life?” I say, nudging her shoulder.

Mira pushes out a long breath, then surges from the car. “No fear, right?” she says.

Then I notice that while the rest of the team has already joined Matías and the militia by the planes, Owen hangs back, staring apologetically at Duke.

“Do you two need a moment?” I wisecrack.

“I know it’s just a car, but I don’t want to let Duke go,” he says, eyes glassy. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

Duke is the catalyst that changed Owen’s future. The reason he crossed paths with Rayla, and his guardian during the Killer Drone attack. The car has saved his life more than once.

I know firsthand how hard it is to leave something you love behind.

“I’m sending Duke back to Dallas,” Owen tells me. He plunges into the car and starts pressing buttons on the dashboard’s screen.

Duke can navigate himself, but can he make it on cartel-patrolled highways and through the border wall?

“He can make it,” Owen says firmly, as if he can sense my doubt.

“Ava, we need to go,” Mira says. She grips her rucksack in one hand, holding out mine with the other. Thanks to Haven, our bags weren’t left behind in the tanker truck after all.

Mira, Owen, and I make our way to the final Cessna, its pilot garbed in a lightweight bomber jacket and aviator shades. She nods a confident greeting as I ascend the short airstairs to join our team in the tight cabin. Owen lingers at the door, pausing to watch Duke speed across the valley and disappear behind a bend in the road.

When Owen takes his seat beside me, the pilot secures the door, then turns to face her nervous passengers. The cabin vibrates so bad my teeth rattle, and the vacillating roar of the engines sounds like they might fizzle out at any moment.

The opposite of my first flight experience aboard Senator Gordon’s government-funded jet.

I grab hold of Mira’s hand and squeeze. No fear.

“I will see to it my plane lands safely,” the pilot says, our ear cuffs translating her promise. She places a closed fist over her heart. “Justice by our own hands.”

Their version of the Common salute.

All of us, even Alexander, press a hand to our chests.

“Justice by our own hands,” we vow.

OWEN

Before I sent Duke back to Texas, I established a remote-access VPN connection that links my tablet to Duke’s operating system. Not just to keep tabs on my code busting, but to catch up with the outside world.

And guess what I just found out?

Roth is back in the race.

I mean, I knew he was running, but not for president. The bastard is at large, on the lam, fleeing from us. He’s gone AWOL, abandoned his country for a hotter southern neighbor, and he expects the States to just welcome him back with open hearts and arms?

Site after site, poll after poll, indicates yes. It’s a spirit-crushing twist—the public’s susceptibility to a Roth revival.

And the headlines don’t look good for our side.

“A Common Catastrophe”; “Chaos Heading for Ruin”; “Real Leadership, Right Now!”; “To Survive into the Future, We Must Forgive the Past”; “Howard Roth, the Dark Horse, or the White Knight?”

“More like the front rider of the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse,” I scoff.

The Goodwins have said nothing since we saw the breaking news.

Ava takes all this in, stone-faced, stoic, except for the pop, pop, pop of her cracking knuckles. For a second, I think of grabbing her restive hand, telling her she can use my own as a stress ball, or as a steady grip to hold on to in this whirlwind, but Mira gets there first.

Then another headline catches my eye: “Common Leader Emery Jackson Unaccounted For. Twenty-One Hours Since Last Seen.”

Did the State Guard get her? Or did Blaise? Is she locked in a Loyalist dungeon, or covertly on her way south, to us, as backup?

I’m on the verge of asking Ava what she thinks, but I decide it’s best to avoid stirring the alarm.

The scrappy, claustrophobic plane suddenly dips, jostling half my body into Alexander’s lap. The guy doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy staring out the murky window watching for the first glimpse of Mexico City.

“Still another hour, bud,” I say.

I don’t blame Alexander for wanting to keep his head in the clouds.

His dad is running for the presidency. Again. And there’s a high chance Roth could get the public back on his side.

Roth could win.

A second dip and my focus shoots to the pilot. We’re going to crash; we’re too heavy. Eight passengers is one too many. I mull over which of us we could have culled, when my winning choice speaks up from the overcrowded row behind me.

“Are you sure your device is secure?” Skye asks cynically.

“Hi, I’m not sure we properly met,” I snap, locking my eyes back to my screen, “but I’m head of cybersecurity, handpicked by Emery, recruited by Rayla Cadwell. I know what I’m doing.”

I know what I’m doing.

“I’m good at my job too,” Skye threatens, her temper as hot as mine. “So you should watch your tone.” She rises from her seat, which happens to be Lucía’s lap. I couldn’t help but notice Lucía’s arms were wrapped around Skye’s waist . . . a human seat belt? Or is there something more happening there?

The infamous assassin leans over my headrest, reaches out, and glides a finger across my neck.

Um, did she just poison me?

No way, we’re on the same team. I force myself to not wipe off my skin with my sleeve. Skye laughs, relishing in my squirms.

“Play Roth’s announcement again,” Mira demands, reminding us who the true enemy is here.

Taking a quick beat to calm myself, I enlarge the video to full screen and pump the volume.

The ex-governor’s opening line is a real doozy.

“Did you miss me?” Roth asks the country, all smug and righteous, like he’s not the culprit of all the chaos.

His whole state’s gone dark; his Loyalists are blowing up cell towers and people, drowning “Commoners,” assassinating rival candidates, and who knows what’s coming next. Yet he can sit there in front of his Lone Star flag, look the camera in the eye, and say that he’s the remedy and savior.

When the speech gets to the part where Roth promises to “cure the nation of the Common disorder,” Haven slams her palms to her ears and screams, “Enough!”

I mute the bastard.

But in my mind, I hit replay again and again, on those first four words. Did you miss me?

No, I answer. I’ve thought about you round the clock since our encounter in the tunnels.